


Madness of the Misty Cove

by Cloudgazer (Cloudgazer_DBH)



Series: Trials of the Dragonborn [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Aaracokra, Dragonborn (D&D), Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Half-orc, Lizardfolk, M/M, Original Character(s), Tabaxi, Tortle, Waterdeep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23115175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudgazer_DBH/pseuds/Cloudgazer
Summary: A mysterious stranger arrives in Waterdeep by ship, and offers our heroes the riches of a dragon's unclaimed hoard. However, something dark and sinister awaits them at the Mist Crescent.
Relationships: Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s), Original Dragonborn Character(s)/Original Dragonborn Character(s), Original Dungeons & Dragons Character(s) & Original Dungeons & Dragons Character(s)
Series: Trials of the Dragonborn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557541
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to all of the orphan D&D characters who only ever got to play in one-shots, games that died too soon, and low-plot games where they never got to shine. Those characters live on forever. Let them out of the box to sparkle every once in a while!

Eyes wide and hood up, the green-tinged beak of the tortoise-like creature hung open. His eyes tilted up to stare at the vast horizon approaching him over the shining blue water of Waterdeep harbor. It was a bigger city than he had ever seen. In truth it was only the third civilization he had ever seen, after his own, and a day-long stopover in Saltmarsh, and by far the most impressive so far.

Remembering where he was, the elderly tortle closed his mouth and straightened his neck. He stood on the deck of his ship – a cheap vessel he had managed to buy in Saltmarsh using the last of the treasure his mother had contributed to this adventure – and he was surrounded on all sides by the bustle of the temporary crew he had thrown together. It would go no further than this, he knew. He had no money to pay these men and women past today. They would leave and he would be stranded in this big city, but he had heard that the city of splendors was the place to go if one needed to find a steady supply of tough adventurers. Surely, he could gather a new crew, with the promise of the wealth of his homeland.

“Comin’ into port!” a man at the helm cried, “All ashore what’s going ashore!”

The tortle turned his face to stare at the grimy-looking human who was helming his ship, and then back towards Waterdeep. The tortle was wearing a simple brown robe over his shell, with long sleeves that he tucked his arms into at rest. He found that keeping his things hidden under clothes was an effective way to keep pickpockets away, although it felt over-warm and awkward wearing the brown woolen thing in the beating sunshine. He also found that people respected his capabilities more when he resembled them via the way he dressed. Wizards, as he had come to discover the people in the outside world defined his abilities, usually wore long robes and carried impressive tomes and staves. He had a staff – more of a quarterstaff, in case he ever needed to forego magic and hit something – but the bag at his hip did not resemble anything like a human wizard’s spellbook.

As his ship came into port in Waterdeep, the sailors quickly finished their work and stepped off the ramp to disembark with hardly a look at their tortle employer. They knew there was no more gold for them. They had been paid up to this point, and knew if they wanted to work, they would have to find someone else disembarking soon. The tortle raised a hand to wave goodbye to his companions on the long voyage from Saltmarsh to Waterdeep, but only one returned the gesture. The Helmsman returned it with a sneer and a derisive laugh.

“Good riddance, Argo,” said the man, “leadin’ us on like this.”

And then the helmsman walked off the boat and out of Argo’s life. The tortle frowned, breathing in deep the salt air and closing his eyes. He was alone. All he had was a ship and nobody to crew it. He had barely enough left to pay whatever docking fees there were to land in Waterdeep’s harbor, and even that would evaporate eventually.

He turned away from the city then, to stare out over the waters of the Sea of Swords. He was a long way from home now. His scaly brows furrowed in pain, thinking of what he had left behind, and the ultimate reason why. With the memories fresh in his mind, his melancholy faded into determination. His meaty claw tightened around his quarterstaff as he squinted his eyes, trying to see his homeland across the Trackless Sea, but knowing it was at least a month away from here, if well-sailed.

“I’m coming back,” he whispered to the air in the language of dragons, talking to all the people he left behind, who were counting on his return, “I swear. I’ll bring help. I’ll save you all.”

With that, he turned back towards the city of splendors and, using his quarterstaff as a walking stick, made his way down to the docks to spend the last of his gold on his docking fees, and then to find his way to a place where adventurers roam. He was one of them now.

\--

With a flourish, a green, clawed hand placed the last gold coin on the stack, with a satisfying clink. The deep green tortle smiled as he pulled his hand away, presenting the stack to his companions, who sat around the table, staring.

“And that makes twenty-two,” said Pequod the tortle, who wore nothing but a hat, a rapier on a belt at his side, and a set of bagpipes slung around his bulky shell, “The last of the funds.”

“How is this possible?” asked his companion, a green-colored dragonborn with a nervous face, who adjusted his spectacles as he stared at the stack of gold, “This is all that’s left in the group fund?”

“’Fraid so, Balthezar” said Pequod, “Hotspur?”

Across the table, there was a female half-orc with long black hair tied up in a braid behind her, who was wearing a set of scuffed armor. Her jaw was clenched, and her pretty eyes squinted down at the gold.

“We haven’t had a job in weeks,” she muttered, crossing her arms and looking away from her companions.

“And whose fault is that?” asked Pequod, his tone gentle, but admonishing.

“Listen, you! It’s not my fault Mother’s been insisting upon handing me more social business than usual!” she snapped, her tusks jutting out even further than they normally did. Although her face was angry, her green skin deepened in an obvious blush. “So, I haven’t been able to go out as much! Nothing’s stopping the rest of you.”

“Ssylo’s been making improvements to the warren,” said a small voice from around the table, and Pequod turned his head to regard the rust-colored Kobold who was standing on his chair, looking up at everyone else. “I ain’t been able to make it. Sorry.”

“You’ve been having fun with that little nephew of yours, I expect?” Pequod said with a smirk.

“Well, sure! He’s family. Can’t go leaving family, can you?”

Pequod sighed deeply, before turning to the last two members of their crew, two dragonborn, a bespectacled green fellow with a soft face, and a heavily muscled silver with swept-back horns and eyes that narrowed deeply as he scowled down at the small stack of coin. He was wearing clothes that were once sharp and utilitarian, but it seemed that no matter what Creon put on it ended up rumpled and lived-in eventually.

“And you two?” asked Pequod.

Balthezar, the green, flinched, swallowing hard, and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have a reason. Nobody else has been available. I’ve been doing quite well for myself working with the various libraries in town…”

“Yes, for coppers and silvers,” said Pequod, “Good enough to live on, but not live well. Creon?”

“We ain’t had a proper job in weeks. Cloudgazer and I have to make money somewhere.”

“Bouncing at the Silver Scale is certainly one way to do it,” said Pequod, before he looked around, “And what about Caliban?”

The two dragonborn’s faces fell slightly, and Balthezar looked away. Creon, his own eyes softening some, reached up a hand to rest on the green dragonborn’s shoulder and leaned in close to comfort him, before he answered.

“What about him?”

“I requested two days ago if he was available for a simple guard detail,” said Pequod, “You all never got back to me. Where is he?”

Balthezar was silent for a moment, before he shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, “He… left.”

After a pregnant pause from everyone around the table, Pequod muttered, “Left?”

“Caliban left… you?” Puck asked, eyes wide.

“W-well, it’s not like that!” Balthezar said, raising his hands. He tried to explain, but he was flustered, “He just… there are… I mean…”

Creon, in a far more even tone of voice, continued, reaching down to take his lover’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly, “A place down south called Dunwater got hit with an attack. A bunch of lizardfolk refugees have been arriving over the past few weeks.”

“Caliban’s been working with them!” cried Balthezar, pride obvious on his face, which soon melted into slight disappointment, “But, uh, he said we shouldn’t interfere. They’re very skittish around people who aren’t lizardfolk. If they’re anything like how Caliban was when he first came to Waterdeep, I can understand his concern.”

“So… were you two going to tell me that Caliban was busy with something like this?” asked Pequod, “Or did I have to figure it out myself?”

Creon and Balthezar had no answer. They looked at one another, Balthezar seeming embarrassed, and Creon shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s his business,” said Creon, “And there ain’t been any work that’s really worth it, so…”

Pequod raised a claw and held his face as if in pain. His normally easygoing expression was contorted now in pain and annoyance. “You know, you all made an agreement when you joined this outfit. We were going to make a difference in the world, remember?”

“What difference does it make hiring ourselves out as bodyguards?” spat Hotspur, “I’m not in it for the gold, shellback. I got enough of that back home. I’m in it for excitement.”

“We have been taking an awful lot of jobs, er, below our paygrade, I think,” said Balthezar, “And my duties with the library of Deneir are quite important, you know? A liaison between Waterdeep and Candlekeep is…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” snapped Pequod, “Listen, I know things have been slow lately, but you know we gotta keep up operations, even for minor stuff. Keep people thinking about us.”

“We knocked the crap out of the cult of the dragon though!” insisted Puck, the kobold, reaching down to run a hand across the hard shell of the giant crab under the table feasting on table scraps, “I mean, that was a pretty big deal. We rescued the Eagleshields. We killed a dragon!”

“We killed a wyrmling,” corrected Pequod.

“Possessed by the undying spirit of a dracolich,” said Balthezar.

“And where’s the proof of that? Nobody ever heard of Auldina the Immortal outside of the real esoteric outfits, and they don’t tend to stick around Waterdeep. We cleaned up a cell of the cult of Tiamat. Big deal!” said Pequod.

“What about Candlekeep?” asked Creon, “We were there. We defended the library.”

“ _You_ were there, sure!” cried Pequod, “And so was Ms. Shortbread, and her crew took most of the credit for it! You could have sent a message to me explaining the situation so I could spin it into some good PR for the group, but no! We need opportunities to show we’re still sharp, you get me? That’s how you get people to hire you.”

“We’ve had ‘opportunities’ for a year and a half since then, Pequod,” said Hotspur, grimacing, “What was the last thing we did that was really important?”

“Uhhh,” Puck said, scratching under his long, draconic snout, “We closed down that illegal zoo Hotspur’s dad told us about.”

“We managed to return that book to the library of Deneir, remember?” said Balthezar, “That young man who had stolen that tome of magic.”

“Meat run,” Creon said, simply, nodding his head as if he had answered the question to everyone’s satisfaction.

“Meat… run?” asked Pequod.

“Took an oddjob for a butcher. To run meat from the farm to here,” said Creon, “Every tenday. Usually Caliban did the trip, but since he’s been busy…”

“Is that why we always have mutton on the weekend?” asked Balthezar, brightening up, as if the answer to a puzzle had been presented to him.

Creon nodded. He did not smile, but he seemed to lean closer to the green, draping a thick arm around the librarian’s shoulders. Balthezar smiled at the reserved nature of the silver and settled into the embrace with a growing smile.

“So, park ranger, librarian, delivery boy…” Hotspur said, pointing towards each of her companions in turn before pointing towards Pequod with a sneer, “And now, guard duty. Who exactly were we guarding?”

“Merchants on their way to Red Larch.”

“Red Larch!” cried Hotspur, and a few other eyes in the bar turned to stare at the roaring half-orc, “Where the hell is Red Larch?”

“To the north. Not far, just a few days and…”

“And is there something on these merchants’ tails that they’re hiring dragonslayers to guard their caravan?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Pequod! No!” Hotspur cried, “If we were going somewhere worth a damn, maybe! Baldur’s Gate, or Tymanther, or hell, get over your hang-up over Chult and head to Port Nyazaru! Somewhere with some teeth. I can get more excitement staying home sparring with my father than I can get doing whatever the hell they do in Red Larch. We’re wasting our talents here.”

“That’s why I’m trying to get us work! So people know who we are!”

“So, what’s next? Carriage drivers? Shoe-shiners? Maybe you’ll get us a gig babysitting next.”

“Hotspur…”

“Take the twenty-two gold if that’s so important to you,” Hotspur spat, “And call us together when you’ve got a real job, understand? See you back home, everyone.”

And with that, Hotspur stood, her mood foul, and she turned to walk from the bar.

“Hotspur!” Pequod cried after her, “Hotspur!”

However, she ignored the tortle’s cries. She was gnashing her teeth as she went, and when she noticed there was a table of rough-looking humans staring at her, she rounded on them all of a sudden and gave a wild, orcish roar. Immediately, they turned away from her, pretending she wasn’t there and hunching down to stare into their cups. Hotspur, deeming them not worth beating, moved on and left the bar.

Pequod stared at her go, astonished. He snapped out of it when there was a light cough from Balthezar to get his attention.

“Red Larch is rather a minor town to be involved in,” said Balthezar, “It would take a bit more than that to pull me away from my duties at the temple, I hope you understand.”

“Human town, too,” muttered Puck, “I definitely wouldn’t be welcome without human escorts. You neither, Pequod. People outside of Chult barely know what a tortle is.”

“Yes, I get it,” Pequod muttered, waving his claw dismissively. He was in a sour mood now, his usual calm shattered by the half-orc storming off. He had been taken off-guard by that. Hotspur was usually so game. He stalled his time by shoveling the stacked gold coins back into his coin purse and stashing it in a small pack at his side. “It’s a poor fit. I’ll get hold of the merchants and tell them no.”

“I… I’m sure it was a fine job, Pequod,” said Balthezar, reaching forward to touch his friend on the arm, “It’s just… a little beneath us.”

“Well, it won’t be for long,” snapped Pequod, “You all keep sitting around doing nothing for long enough, everyone’s going to forget, and even these table scraps won’t be around for us. You all realize that, right?”

“I thought this was about money,” said Creon.

“It… it is!” said Pequod, “That’s part of it, at least.”

At this, Puck sighed, and said, “I gotta go. I guess call me at the warren if we get something. See you later Pequod. Bye Cloudgazer. Bye Snout.”

The silver dragonborn flinched then, scowling down at the kobold as he began to admonish him, “Don’t call me…”

“Farewell, Puck,” interrupted Balthezar, shoving his shoulder lightly into Creon’s side, “Tell the warren I said hello.”

“You’re welcome to visit, y’know,” said Puck with a smile, “Later! C’mon Dungeness.”

And with that, the kobold hopped down from his chair and gave a small whistle. In reaction, the giant crab under the table skittered out, bumping up against Balthezar’s and Creon’s legs, and the kobold hopped on top of the creature to ride out of the bar, waving goodbye. Patrons who hadn’t seen the kobold enter with his crab were taken aback by the strange creature and his even stranger mount, but most had seen stranger things in Waterdeep.

“I suppose we had better get going as well,” said Balthezar, “Sorry things didn’t work out, Pequod. I’m sure you’ll find something soon.”

“There isn’t anything else is the problem, Cloudgazer,” said Pequod, leaning forward heavily and resting his chin in his hands, “We can’t just sit on our hands until something major rolls around. You have to realize that.”

“Well, yes, but…” began Balthezar, looking from the tortle to the silver at his side, “Listen, Pequod, Caliban, Creon, and I have put together something of a life here in Waterdeep for as long as it lasts. Puck has as well, and Hotspur? Well, she’s finally stopped running away from her own family responsibilities, I think. We’re all in a period of transition. We’ve settled.”

“All except me, is that it?” muttered Pequod.

“W-well… I know it’s a sore subject for you.”

“It’s a death sentence is what it is,” snapped Pequod, “That’s what settling down means. No thanks.”

“Surely…”

“Don’t you two have some place to be?” Pequod asked, an edge of mockery in his voice as he turned from them and began to drum his claws on the table, “Go on. Don’t let me keep you.”

Balthezar was quiet at this, his soft, draconic features sorrowful at seeing his friend in such a bad state, but he knew nothing he could say would help. As he searched for the words to say, Creon began to stand and, gently, guided the bespectacled dragonborn out of his chair and gave him a knowing look.

“Good day Pequod,” said Creon, simply, knowing there was nothing much else to say.

Balthezar, taking the hint, took Creon’s hand in his own and the two of them then began to walk out, although the silver’s gaze seemed to hold on the tortle as he went. This was not lost on Pequod, who stared right back, annoyed. For as good as Pequod’s poker face could be, that silver’s eye for details was just as good. He could fool most anybody but him. He cursed Balthezar for bringing the new blood in without consulting him, but stopped, knowing how strong Creon could be when he had the opportunity to show off.

Alone, then, Pequod sighed deeply. Was this really it? Was the adventure over so soon? No. There were other options. He had other contacts in the city. If things fell apart here, he could always go work for another outfit. Ms. Shortbread’s crew was always looking for talent, and there was always the option of leaving Waterdeep and starting over in another town. That was always a good way to raise one’s reputation.

_Or I could just give up and go back home_.

The thought came unbidden and was an unwelcome visitor in Pequod’s head, and he rejected it immediately. He straightened back up, a sudden anger on his face as the stray thought passed through him. He could never return to the Snout of Omgar, even if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. Nothing ever happened there. The world was far too exciting to go back home to die a placid life surrounded by children and old timers.

Sensing that this small bar near the Eagleshield residence wasn’t going to cut it, Pequod stood up, fishing a gold piece out of his bag to drop onto the table and walked out. He needed somewhere loud to drown out his thoughts. Somewhere exciting, where a fight might break out. He needed to spend an evening at the Yawning Portal, clearly. Maybe he would find something there to alleviate his frustration.

\--

It was only just past three bells when Pequod arrived at the Yawning Portal, and already the crowd was thick and rowdy. The sounds and sights of the colorful bar brought a long-overdue smile to the tortle’s face as he walked in, scanning the crowd for anyone he knew. Up on the balcony he could see a gang of toughs fawning over a familiar little old lady and knew that Ms. Shortbread was up to her old tricks. He would probably go up and pay his respects. It paid to be in that lady’s good graces.

Otherwise, he saw nobody he knew well outside of Durnan, the thickly muscled bartender. Pequod felt a powerful thirst at that moment and decided that since he was here, he might as well drink. Always with an eye towards the dark corners of the barroom, Pequod approached the counter. He saw the usual types – robed figures waiting for informants to come to them, criminals trying to lay low, young toughs trying their best to look cool. Pequod knew the types. He had been those types. When he saw that one of the corner booths was open, he thought, with a smile, that he would be one of those types tonight.

“Good afternoon, Durnan,” said Pequod with a smile, laying a coin down on the bar top, “Something strong, I think. I feel a powerful thirst.”

“Ah, the tortle,” said the bartender, staring down at the coin, before taking it and replacing it with a mug of ale so brown as to be black, which flowed like grease, “Lookin’ for work?”

“If there’s any to be had, I’d appreciate the heads-up,” said Pequod, taking the mug of ale and smiling, “Busy day?”

“Nothin’ but wannabees and green upstarts today, except o’ course for Ms. Shortbread upstairs. She’s got her whole gang up there cleaning out my beer barrels, celebrating taking on some new kid with talent I think.”

“I’m sure they’re good for it, Durnan,” said Pequod, “Talent, huh? Tell me more.”

The man reached up to scratch at his mutton chops, before looking up towards the balcony. Pequod followed his gaze and saw, sitting next to the old woman, was an odd sight that Pequod hadn’t properly been able to see from the entrance. He was a tall, feline creature who walked on two legs like a man, a tabaxi, a rare sight outside of Chult, to be sure. Even rarer than that was the Tabaxi’s manner and dress. He spoke to Ms. Shortbread’s collection of toughs and gangsters with an easy grace, and unlike the brown leather armor and black cloaks surrounding him, he dressed in an outlandish costume of red silk, sequins, scarves with beaded tassels, and most oddly, a pigeon perched on his shoulder, which he offered crumbs up to every so often. His fur was jet black and shone in the light of the bar, and Pequod could see the hint of white beneath his chin and at the palms of his hands. Pequod did not know who this person was but wondered if he was a new bard come to town. He usually knew right away when a new player entered Waterdeep’s tight-knit adventurer community and figured the tabaxi must have just arrived.

“Good for Ms. Shortbread,” said, Pequod, “Good to see she can afford another mouth to feed. I think I’ll take a corner seat. Stick to the shadows, yes?”

“I thought you were lookin’ for work? Why hide away?”

“My good man, if I wanted to have a quiet evening, I would find a nice, bright spot in the middle of the floor and no one would pay me any mind. When I want some excitement, the shadowy corner is where I’ll stay. Nothing gets people to look at you more than looking like you’re trying to hide.”

“If you insist,” said Durnan, scratching once again at his bristly beard.

Thanking Durnan for the tankard with a nod, Pequod stepped back from the bar and, with light footsteps, walked on towards the empty booth in the shady corner of the Yawning Portal. What he had told Durnan was, after all, the truth, at least for him. He was unique looking enough that if he sat in a shadowy corner, people tended to get curious. At worst, it might lead to a conversation, a new connection, and perhaps a new friend or enemy. At best, it might lead to an equally shadowy visitor coming to the intimidating looking tortle with a job offer. Either way, after today’s disappointment, Pequod was certainly game.

\--

Argo had been walking most of the morning and much of the afternoon. Even with his walking stick, his old bones were tired. He was annoyed to find that not many people around were willing to talk to him. Humans. Odd creatures, he long ago decided. Soft, and so fragile, and yet they seemed to rule the outside world. The few elves and dwarves and even halflings he had met were not much better, although it was finally a halfling who gave him directions to this ‘Yawning Portal’ he had heard of.

Now, finally, here he was. He stared up at the façade of the tavern with some trepidation. It was loud inside, and it seemed to be packed with people, but on the bright side it also seemed like it was a little more diverse in terms of races. He hoped that he might not stick out quite as much there as he had before, but at the same time, a place to sit was a place to sit. He pushed open the door and entered.

A sheer wall of sound and music slammed into Argo as he entered the barroom, and he had to blink his eyes at the overwhelming sight of it. There were three stories, with wide balconies hanging over a massive well in the center of the bar, where gawkers were peering in or daring one another to take the leap. Elsewhere, a myriad of people were bustling around, laughing, talking, fighting, and, most of all, drinking. He hoped perhaps he would see more of his kind, but he knew that would be folly. He was sure no one else like him existed out here in the world. He was an oddity, he decided. If he wanted to find strong sailors to help him, he had to take advantage of that.

He walked up to the bar, as he learned was polite to do, and fished a few coins out of his purse. He had no idea what things cost, but he had learned also that the polite thing to do was not to ask, but to just pay, as if you knew already how much things were. If it was too little, they would surely correct you. If it was too much, they tended to like you more.

“Good day,” said Argo to the bartender.

Durnan turned around at the sound of the voice and narrowed his eyes at the sight of the tortle. He grimaced, a recently lit pipe hanging from his mouth, and he tilted his head.

“Tortle,” said the bartender, as if that was his name.

“Good day,” Argo repeated, before he placed two silver coins on the counter and asked, “I would like a drink and a meal please. Something sweet if you have it. Mead, perhaps?”

“Aye, that I can getcha,” said Durnan, sensing already that this newcomer was here for a reason, “You a friend of Pequod?”

Argo blinked his eyes in confusion and tilted his head. He did not recognize the name. “Pequod?”

“Can’t see why another tortle would just wander into my bar for no reason.”

“Another tortle?” Argo said, hope swelling in his chest, “I don’t know of him personally, but I would be interested in meeting him, perhaps.”

“Don’t suppose you got a job for his group, then?”

“I do, in fact!” Argo said, his gentle voice rising as he smiled, leaning forward, “Is he strong, this Pequod?”

“Pretty strong, I think. Went around telling people his crew slew a dragon about two years back. Had enough money to burn for a while that I believed they did something pretty amazing. They’ve slowed down a bit since then, but a couple of his crew helped out when Candlekeep was attacked a while ago.”

“Please, good sir, could you point me to him?”

Durnan smirked, before he hooked a thumb towards one of the shadowy corners of the bar, where a booth sat. “He’s an, er, underhanded type, you understand. Don’t know if I’d trust him as far as I could throw him, but if you need something taken care of, he’ll hook you up.”

This description of this other tortle put Argo on edge. Untrustworthy was something he wouldn’t have said about any of the people back home. He had thought that perhaps tortles were just more honest than other races, but to hear of one who was not gave him pause. Even so, by Yygrall, this was progress, and so he nodded his head towards Durnan and, when he received his drink and a fine bowl of stew, he carried them both with him to this corner booth and peeked into the darkness.

He saw a mound sitting there, vaguely tortle-shaped, he supposed, but at the same time it could have simply been a large, decorative rock. As he stared, he began to notice it breathing slightly, and smiled a little. Was this Pequod asleep? How could he sleep over the din of so much conversation, and that odd bard on the bandstand noodling about on that three-stringed lute?

“Well?” heard Argo, suddenly, and he flinched back, causing his drink to spill over slightly, “You gonna ask to sit, or just stare at me all night?”

“O-oh! I apologize, of course,” said Argo, stepping forward and allowing himself to get a better look at this Pequod, “Are you, er, Pequod?”

“I am. Durnan send you this way?”

“He mentioned you, yes,” said Argo, before he remembered his exhaustion from the long journey and gave a bashful smile, “I’m sorry, but may I sit? I have been walking most of the day, and I’ve been out on the sea for ever so long.”

The shell of the shadowy tortle seemed to rise in a shrug, before a hand emerged from the dark to gesture towards another seat in the booth. Argo took that as an invitation, and with great pleasure, sat with a sigh, placing his stew and drink on the table.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Argo.”

“Never heard of you. Funny…”

“I’m new in town. It wouldn’t make sense for you to hear of me.”

“No, I mean…” Pequod began, before he leaned forward, and for the first time, Argo saw the scowl that was upon the other Tortle’s face in the light, “I’m from out of town too. I never heard of a tortle named Argo. Especially not one your age.”

At this point, Argo stared at Pequod and realized that there were several differences between himself and this stranger. Pequod was about the same height as Argo, but he was far, far bulkier, with thicker limbs and rougher scales. The qualities of their colors were different as well, as Pequod was a dull, forest green, while Argo was more of a bright turquoise, almost blue.

“I apologize for that, but I doubt we are from the same place.”

Pequod seemed confused at this answer, and his confusion made him smile. “That’s nonsense.”

“It is?”

“Tortles – proper tortles – come from the southern tip of Chult. The Snout of Omgar. Heard of it?”

Argo hadn’t, and felt no reason to lie, “Well, I’m not from there.”

“There isn’t any other place to be from. That’s where we come from.”

Argo had no answer to this except, “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

Pequod stared, before he stood up slowly and moved to the entrance of the booth. He had an odd expression, something like a smile, but far more wicked in its intentions, and Argo felt immediately uncomfortable. With a jerk, the larger tortle grabbed hold of a square of rough cloth privacy curtain and pulled it closed, isolating the two tortles around the table. Immediately, alarm bells were ringing in Argo’s ears. The words of an incantation were on his lips, ready to be uttered, but he didn’t like his own chances one on one with anyone.

“Pequod,” said Argo, “I came here because the bartender said you were looking for work.”

“Uh-huh, hold that thought,” said Pequod, before he leaned forward over the table and, oddly enough, patted the other tortle on the top of the head, as if searching for something. Argo froze, unsure of what this meant. Unsatisfied, the larger tortle then began to whisper the words of an incantation.

“What are you doing?” Argo said immediately, before he raised a hand and, as the magic began to rise up out of Pequod’s words and hands, he gave his own brief counter-incantation, unravelling the strands of weave that had begun to surround the other tortle. The sheer force that interrupted his spell surprised the tortle. He had seen counterspells before, but he had never seen such power thrown behind them, and so effortlessly. Pequod’s eyes went wide, and one hand dipped beneath the table, and soon the tip of a rapier was levied against Argo’s face.

“Who are you, really?”

Argo tried to remain calm but was finding it difficult with a sword in his face. “A traveler. I come from an island far away from here. My name is Argo. It is the truth.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Pequod, the tip of his sword relaxing only slightly, “Powerful magic.”

“It was a simple counterspell. I could not tell what you were casting. It is not polite to cast a spell without permission.”

“Nothing simple about counterspell,” muttered Pequod, before he tilted his head from side to side, “I was trying to dispel whatever illusion you have over you.”

“I assure you my appearance is no illusion.”

“I’ve had a lot of trouble with things like that. You can’t fault me being careful,” he answered, “Then you’re really a tortle? One not from the Snout? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it or not, it is true,” said Argo, “I had my own word for what I was, but when I came through Saltmarsh they all called me tortle, so tortle I must be in the common tongue.”

Pequod narrowed his eyes, pausing, before he sheathed the rapier and softened his expression. “Alright then, and they teach you wizardry wherever you come from, then?”

“Do you not have wizards on your Snout of Omgar?”

“They barely have houses. One of these days they’ll probably get around to inventing fire.”

Argo’s scaly brow furrowed in concern at this, but Pequod simply laughed.

“A joke. It’s a joke. They’re just a bit backwards there. Nothing but fish and coconuts.”

“We have fish and coconuts on my home as well, but apparently we also have wizards,” said Argo, “as I said, I came to you because I have a job.”

“Alright. What kind of job, out-of-towner?”

Argo hesitated. This was it. He was going to have to explain, or at least try.

“As I said, I do not come from this Snout of yours,” said Argo, “I come from an island far off in the Trackless Sea, almost to the continent you know as Maztica.”

“That’s… a long way off,” said Pequod, surprised, “You came all the way here from there?”

“I had to. There was, well…” Argo began, before he stopped and began to search for his words, “I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Pequod. Can you keep a secret?”

“Not here I can’t. Every ear in the house can hear us no matter where we go. There’s no secrets in the Yawning Portal.”

“Every ear, but… perhaps not every eye,” said Argo, before he reached into his robe and retrieved a sack filled with something large. It was the last bit of wealth he had, and he had been saving it just for this occasion, “Please, look at this.”

At this, he untied the sack and placed it on the table. Immediately, Pequod’s eyes widened as a sparkle began to overwhelm his vision. There, within the bag, was the largest, purest cut diamond he had ever seen. It was larger than a tortle’s fist, approaching the size of his head, and it sat, glittering on the table in the meager light of this shadowy corner.

“Put that away,” hissed Pequod, “You trying to get mugged?”

“I am trying to recruit adventurers to help me,” he said, bagging the diamond back up and shoving it back into his robes, “There is more where this comes from.”

Pequod’s mind was racing as Argo said this, and he blurted out, “A treasure hunt, then?”

Argo nodded his head, frowning, “Underneath my island there is an… unclaimed treasure hoard that belonged to a dragon. The dragon has since been defeated, but now the treasure sits below. I intend to gather a party to help me excavate it.”

“You couldn’t have done it yourself?”

“It is dangerous work. The treasure lies deep under my home. There are many monsters. I am a student of the stones and the best warrior of my island, but I cannot do such a thing myself.”

Pequod stared at Argo. If Argo didn’t know any better, he would have thought that Pequod was pleased with what he was saying, and perhaps a little bit relieved. However, the tortle forced himself to frown, and the temptation seemed to evaporate from him.

“And what’s in it for us? I presume we get a share of the treasure?”

“Of course. After the… residents of the island divvy it up fairly, there will be a share for you and your companions.”

“How big of a share?”

“I… I cannot answer that because I don’t know how much is precisely in the hoard.”

“A percentage then,” said Pequod, smirking.

Argo blinked his eyes, and then it was his turn to narrow them, “I’ll not have you cheat my island, Pequod.”

“No need to get prickly, Argo. It’s a simple question. How about fifty percent?”

“F-fifty!”

“Of the take,” said Pequod, smiling, “If it’s as big as you say it is, that leaves plenty for your people, and a handsome payoff for mine.”

“I don’t know if…” began Argo, but he realized that pleading to Pequod’s better nature likely wouldn’t work. Instead he began to play the game. “Ten percent will be sufficient for whomever you can find.”

“I assure you my people are more than up to the task. I have a party of five, including myself, who have slain dragons, and I can scare up a couple more if that would make you feel better. Forty-five.”

“The bartender said your crew slew only one dragon, and for the other only a few members were present. fifteen.”

“More dragons than you can slay on your own. Forty. And that’s my final offer, unless you want to press your luck elsewhere. You’ve caught me on a good day. I wouldn’t be so eager to go on such a wild goose chase any other time.”

“Thirty-five,” insisted Argo, “Pequod, that treasure represents my people’s inheritance. I can’t just…”

“Forty,” Pequod interrupted, “Especially considering you aren’t telling me the whole story.”

Argo paused at this, his jaw going slack, but it was only a momentary lapse.

“Pequod, I…”

“I know how this goes, Argo. You’re luring us somewhere. I believe your story about the island and the treasure, but that doesn’t mean I trust you. Your story still doesn’t make sense. Why outsource your dungeon delving? Unless there’s something in that dungeon you can’t face.”

Argo was silent at this, staring straight into Pequod’s face.

“You aren’t going to cheat me, are you, Pequod? I have heard that you are a scoundrel.”

“That I am. Cheating people is in my blood, but I only cheat them that deserve it. I’m on the side of the angels, my new friend. We will get the job done, I assure you,” Pequod said, his voice gentle, before he hardened his words and continued, “But only for forty percent.”

“Forty percent or as much as you can carry, whichever is less.”

“How big’s your ship?”

“Big enough for a fortune, small enough that there will be enough left over for my tribe,” said Argo, coldly.

Pequod couldn’t help laugh at this, before he nodded his head, and reached his hand across the table, “You got a deal with me, Argo, pending approval from my cohorts. Thank you very much.”

“Thank me?” asked Argo, reaching forward to shake Pequod’s hand, “What for? I should be thanking you.”

“I needed this job. We all did,” said Pequod, before he stood and winked his eye at the smaller tortle. He then reached under his hat and withdrew a small card, flicking it across the table so that it rested next to Argo’s mead. “Finish your stew, old timer. Come around any time tonight or tomorrow. We’ll talk more, and you can meet the gang.”

With that, Pequod pulled the curtain open. Argo couldn’t help but notice that there were several people who were pointedly looking away from their booth, or who seemed to avert their gazes from Pequod as he stood. The tortle, suddenly all smiles, took a moment to stand in the middle of the room and meet the eyes of each of the dark-looking toughs, seeming friendly, but Argo noticed an edge of fear come over each man and woman as the tortle’s gaze was cast over them, and Argo breathed a sigh of relief. He had been claimed in some way by Pequod, and woe to anyone who attempted to take advantage of him before he went to speak with Pequod’s crew.

Only one gaze stayed glued to the tortles – an odd feline face on the second balcony surrounded by thugs who Argo did not recognize, and Pequod didn’t seem to notice, or he chose not to. Pequod walked off without another word to anyone, humming a sweet little tune, leaving Argo to stare up at the balcony and wonder what that black cat with the wide smile wanted. All of a sudden, Argo heard the sound of wings, and thought he heard the coo of a bird, but when he looked around, he saw nothing. When he looked back at the cat-man, he had resumed his conversation with that little old lady sitting next to him. Argo, despite the protection he had earned from the bard, knew better than to push his luck and resolved to leave that shadowy corner booth as soon as possible to find a safer place to sit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creon and Balthezar take in the ambiance of Trollskull Alley, and discover a new bar has opened in the neighborhood.

Balthezar and Creon walked slow through the streets of Waterdeep. It was springtime, and the sparse greenery that lined to streets was beginning to erupt in colorful blossoms in the opulent North Ward where the Eagleshield residence stood. Both of them had been quiet, holding hands as they walked home from the tap-house where the group tended to meet. They didn’t think they would be heading home so early. Both had been ready to accept whatever job Pequod had brought for them, but that had all fallen through.

“Cloudgazer,” said Creon, finally, “Something wrong?”

“What?” said the green dragonborn, straightening his back and looking towards the lizardfolk.

“You’re damn near pulling my hand off,” said Creon, whose gentle grip was being answered by the tight clutch of the dragonborn’s claw.

“O-oh. I’m sorry,” Balthezar said, loosening his grip and forcing a smile, “I was just… thinking.”

Creon nodded, and knew Balthezar’s insights were going into overdrive. He knew from experience how caring and sensitive the green dragonborn could be, especially about those he called his friends, even if he didn’t realize it himself. The silver walked on for a moment in silence, formulating his response quietly.

“About Pequod,” said Creon, after a moment, “It was odd.”

“Yes. Didn’t you think he seemed… desperate to you?”

“Desperate. Yeah, I could see that.”

Balthezar thought for another instant, before he leaned his shoulder against Creon’s tenderly, reaching up with his other hand to rest on the muscled arm of the silver. “We don’t ultimately know much about Pequod, you know? I think of the six of us I likely know the least about him.”

“I’m still the new face here. Low man on the totem pole. Nobody tells me nothing.”

“I’ve heard snippets,” Balthezar continued, “He ran away, I think? Or was chased out. He’s never mentioned why, or what happened.”

“From what I remember about Tortles,” said Creon, “Don’t they gotta go back home eventually?”

“Must they? He gets particularly prickly whenever the idea of returning to Chult is brought up,” said Balthezar, furrowing his horned brow, “I suppose from a purely instinctive standpoint, it’s possible. His people mate late in life. They return to the beach where they were hatched, lay a clutch of eggs, and raise the children. By the time the hatchlings are old enough to fend for themselves, they reach the end, and die.”

“Oh. Okay,”

With some embarrassment, Balthezar stammered a bit before he explained, “I read a book once on Tortles when I first joined the crew. He’s always been enigmatic, you know. The book wasn’t really any help. Pequod is… unique. Something else entirely.”

Creon nodded his head and reached up with his other hand to trace across the side of his long horns.

“I wonder if that’s it, then,” continued Balthezar, “He’s getting older. He’s afraid of going back because that would be it for him. He would never see the outside world again.”

“If he was chased out, maybe he can’t return,” Creon said, his voice quiet, “I’d understand that.”

Balthezar was silent at this, frowning, and laid his head on the silver’s shoulder. Creon didn’t react much, lost as he was in his own sudden thoughts of home, but eventually he noticed and rumbled something indistinct in his deep voice.

“Perhaps someday we should make a trip to Tymanther,” said Balthezar, “We could stay away from Djerad Thymar if you preferred. Surely there are other places. Perhaps a port town on the Sea of Fallen Stars. Sounds romantic.”

“Djerad Kethendi. Lot of history there. You’d like it,” Creon muttered, “There’s, uh, a big spice market. Lots of nutmeg and crowds.”

“I like nutmeg, I think.”

At this, the two of them were silent, but their walk has slowed even more. It was clear neither of them was in the mood to head home. It was too early, and the day’s disappointments were too great.

“Kinda wish Caliban were here…” Creon said, quietly.

“I know what he would say. He would insist we go dancing,” Balthezar said with a laugh.

Creon closed his eyes in self-conscious embarrassment, but Balthezar could tell that the silver was at least interested in the same thing. Without Caliban there to say the first thing on his mind with no filter, Creon’s more reserved nature didn’t allow him to ask for himself. He was, after all, more than a little obsessed with image and disliked frivolity – or at least he insisted he did – but the green dragonborn had witnessed the wonderful nights when he and the lizardfolk would work together to get the silver out of his shell so he would enjoy himself.

“I think that would be wonderful,” answered Balthezar, as if Creon had asked a question.

Creon opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself, before falling silent with the smallest of smiles. However, the rare smile from the serious dragonborn faded as quickly as it arrived, and he said, “Most places don’t welcome us anymore. It would be the Silver Scale or nothing.”

“Oh… well. I suppose.”

“Caliban kept biting people…”

“Only when they insulted us.”

“Tell that to the bloodstains on the dance floor of the Golden Harp. We’re on thin ice most other places too.”

Balthezar didn’t want to laugh, but he found he had no choice. His weekly polka excursions with Caliban were well-known around town by this time, and when Creon joined the group, he was of course invited along. No matter what dances Creon tried to teach the two of them, Caliban insisted on polka and nothing else, so polka was their dance, taking turns among the three of them. Creon, with an ear for music and a more graceful air befitting his training, had refined his two companions’ form into something more resembling a proper dance, and had even managed to teach the other two flourishes on the dance floor, and when he danced together with Balthezar, they had experimented with other forms more fitting whatever song was playing. Those evenings were bright memories, and they all looked forward to many more in time. Unfortunately, after several unfortunate incidents over the past year – many of which involving quite a lot of blood – Caliban had been banned from most of the taverns and dance halls around Waterdeep, and Creon and Balthezar with him.

“If we can find a place to dance nearby, perhaps. As much as Stelka would be happy to see us, the Silver Scale is all the way across town,” said Balthezar, as they turned down one street, turning away from the way home and down Saerdoun Street, “Otherwise, we can at least stop in for a drink…”

Creon looked around for a moment, before he nudged his head to one side and gestured, saying, “How ‘bout there?”

Balthezar looked up, blinking his eyes, and realized that Creon had gestured at a sign that swung in the faint spring breeze. It was at the entrance of a small neighborhood that both had visited sometimes with Caliban, called Trollskull Alley, which was known for being an oasis in the North Ward for queer people and uncommon races. Balthezar knew it mostly for the splendid bookstore just inside the alley run by a rather crotchety old Dragonborn. The sign said ‘Trollskull Manor’ and if the front door to the building attached to it wasn’t propped open, Balthezar would have sworn the building was condemned.

“That old building’s been falling apart since I got here,” said Balthezar, “Someone opened a tavern there?”

“You know me, I’m always on the lookout for a new dive to try,” Creon said, allowing a smirk to pass his lips, “Maybe instead of dancing we can try to find a little excitement.”

“I…” Balthezar began, blinking his eyes, before he gave a small laugh and shrugged. If it was as much of a sty on the inside as it was from out here, they could simply turn around and leave. “Let’s give it a try.”

Without another moment of hesitation, the two of them walked on hand in hand towards this Trollskull Manor. Neither of them were quite sure what they would find within, but the two of them were always happy to explore the city together.

\--

A fuzzy hand clutching a washcloth slowly, meticulously, wiped in a circle. The counter was as clean as it would ever be, although it didn’t look it. The wood grain was rough, and whatever lacquer or finish there had been once upon a time had been worn away by time and abuse. The rest of the taproom wasn’t much better, as tables and chairs were scattered about a shaggy hardwood floor. There was one person sitting in the taproom at one of the tables, wings folded behind her back as she leaned forward, a book in her talons.

Balthezar and Caliban took in the sight of these two people in the pathetic little bar just off Trollskull alley. Upon noticing them, the apparent bartender perked up and smiled, his triangular ears twitching as he heard them. The bartender was Tabaxi – a catlike race of creatures who mostly resided in Chult, and who had emigrated northward in droves once the ports of the cities across the sword coast had been opened to trade from Port Nyazaru. He was extremely tall, with a long, elegant neck and voluminous ears. Golden fur ran up and down his arms and face, with black rosettes dotting his soft fur, and he seemed always to be smiling at them with his curved mouth and pert whiskers. He wore a simple enough bartender’s apron, although he had some flair to it, dressing himself up in scarves and beads as it was common for his people to do.

“Antigone!” cried the tabaxi, with a clear, thick accent, “Customers!”

Immediately there was a small screech of surprise. Antigone flinched back, dropping the book on the table and turned around. Balthezar had very rarely encountered Aaracokra before in Waterdeep, and he was fascinated at once by this person who stood and began to bustle about, tidying up one of the tables for the two of them to sit. She was short, and shaped very much like a bird, although the volume of her gray feathers gave her a vaguely spherical look. On her back, there was a pair of folded wings. As she turned to bow towards her new customers, they could see a pop of warm red peeking up over the front of the creature’s closed robe. Her small eyes seemed to sparkle in excitement and her black beak opened to speak.

“Welcome!” she said, with a high-pitched, chirpy voice. Her accent in common was northern, but also rough, and Balthezar doubted it was her first language, “Please, sit anywhere.”

“Er, thank you,” Balthezar said, before he turned to Creon. He wondered if it was really worth staying here. It seemed to be a dump. However, Creon still seemed willing to give it a try, and so the green dragonborn shrugged and they meandered to the seat where the Aaracokra had been sitting.

“Uh, um…” Antigone stammered, before she reached down into a pocket with her talons and withdrew a slate and some chalk, preparing to write something down, “We, uh, have ale, and I can cook something for you. We don’t have, uh, much.”

“Let’s start with what you do have, then,” said Balthezar with a smile, recognizing in this bird a sort of kindred spirit of awkward, “Two ales and a warm meal.”

“Eggs alright?” she asked, and the worry in her bearing was palpable, “My eggs are just about the best thing I can cook. Laid fresh every day!”

Both diners stared up at her for a beat, Balthezar’s face grimacing in a sudden, unbidden horror, and Creon in a silent deadpan, before the Aaracokra realized what they were thinking and flinched back.

“N-not _m-my_ eggs! I keep chickens upstairs. I also roast vegetables from my garden. Grow things myself.”

“Oh, that would be splendid then.”

“R-right. I only know how to, uh, scramble them.”

“That’s fine,” Creon chimed in, his face falling. He was very quickly losing confidence in this place, and Balthezar noticed at once.

Antigone nodded vigorously and wrote their orders down on her slate. She then turned towards the bar and breathed in deeply to call out the order. However, before she could get the words out, the bartender had already placed two frothing tankards on the counter.

“Two specials and two ales,” he said, “I heard.”

“O-oh. Uh. Right,” said Antigone, before she took the two tankards of ale in hand and turned to place them in front of the two diners, “I’ll, uh, go get your, uh, food started.”

With that, the bird was free to flee, fretting every step of the way. Left alone in the silent bar, Balthezar and Creon turned to look at one another. Balthezar tried to seem game and reached forward to begin drinking his ale, and Creon, suddenly not sure of his choice in location, nevertheless took a taste of his own. It was serviceable, likely cheap, but better than he expected for such a run-down place.

“Likely one drink and our food and then probably best if we go,” said Balthezar, quietly, hoping that the bartender couldn’t hear, “There’s not really anyone here, is there? For either dancing or excitement.”

“It ain’t really a dive, I guess,” said Creon, “It’s just run down. My fault. Sorry for suggesting it.”

“Oh no! At the very least there’s some uncommon people here,” said Balthezar, with a look towards the bar. As he looked, however, he saw the tabaxi’s lithe form slink up towards their table. Creon soon realized where Balthezar was looking and he too saw the smiling face of the bartender.

“Everything alright?” the tabaxi asked. It was difficult to tell with Tabaxi, but Balthezar pegged him as an older gentleman by the slight graying at the edges of his ears and muzzle.

“O-oh! Yes, I think so!” Balthezar said, hoping that the man hadn’t heard him.

“I know we’re just getting on our feet, so I apologize if the place isn’t quite up to snuff,” said the golden furred feline, before he broke into a broad smile, causing his whiskers to gently perk up, “My name is Red Sky at Night.”

Balthezar and Creon both stared at the man as he gave his name. Balthezar had to smile.

“Red Sky at Night? That’s your name?”

“Like the poem!” he said with a friendly tilt of his head, “Sailor’s delight and all that. Picked it out myself. Do you like it?”

“Er, well, yes. Very… evocative. Good to meet you,” said Balthezar, “My name is…”

“Balthezar, called sometimes ‘Cloudgazer,’” Red Sky interrupted, “And your new beau, Mr. Nastiar Creon, yes?”

“You… know me?”

“I keep up on the local gossip,” said the Tabaxi, “I visited several bars around town. I stopped in at the Silver Scale. Not exactly my scene, but Stelka and Kal spoke very highly of you when I asked if they knew any adventurers around town. I am surprised not to see your constant companion. The lizardfolk people call Caliban, yes?”

Balthezar’s face began to run flush as the tabaxi mentioned the ‘Dragonborn bar’ that they had helped out some time before. They had visited often since then, but Balthezar was still somewhat bashful about the true purpose of the place as a combination brothel and meeting place for lonely dragonborn, almost always men, to find companionship with one another for a night. Unconsciously, Balthezar’s eyes traveled down the gold tabaxi’s form. He was rail thin, and underneath the bartender’s apron, the man was wearing tight, leather pants, and still had the figure to fill them out beautifully. His long, striped tail whipped back and forth all of a sudden, and Balthezar pointedly looked away, couching his hand deeper in Creon’s. Creon noticed at once, and he too took a glance at the tabaxi in that way, before giving a little humorless chuckle and leaning his face close to Balthezar’s, saying nothing except to give him a quizzical expression.

“Well, we did them a rather large favor,” explained Balthezar.

“I hear you get free drinks there whenever you stop in. Dancing too,” the tabaxi noted, “I would like to hire a bard. Dancing would bring people in. I don’t suppose…?”

With that, Red Sky leaned over the table, giving Creon a clear, expectant look. Creon blinked his eyes as he was suddenly addressed, before he scowled, letting his snout curl into a snarl before he answered, “I ain’t a bard.”

Red Sky at Night couldn’t help but laugh and nodded his head. “The rumors say different, my new friend.”

“Well the rumors don’t know me. I ain’t in the market to perform in the corner like a trained monkey,” insisted Creon, “Music is a weapon to me, nothing more nothing less.”

Red Sky did not mind the rough answer and seemed to laugh it off, saying, “I’ll take that to heart, my friend. When I have the money to spend, I will look elsewhere for entertainment. In the meantime, I’m afraid what you see is what you get. I doubt I’ll get any more customers today outside of you. Mind if I join you?”

“J-join us?” asked Balthezar, blinking his eyes.

“Unless you’d rather have an afternoon alone. I understand.”

The green dragonborn stared up at Red Sky, who seemed hopeful for the company. He turned to the silver and said, “Creon, do you mind?”

The silver dragonborn thought for a moment, staring up at the tabaxi himself. He squinted his eyes, trying to divine some malicious intent from the cat, but soon clicked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders, and that was that. With a smile, Red Sky untied the apron from his front and turned around to toss it over onto another table. As he did, they saw that underneath, in addition to the tight leather pants, he was wearing an extravagant blue jacket embellished with scarves that hugged his body. He turned around with a flick of his tail and pulled a chair up, more draping himself over it than sitting, and his green eyes traveled from Balthezar to Caliban, his smile growing ever wider.

“So,” He said, finally, leaning forward and twining his fingers together, pointing his heart-shaped black nose towards the green dragonborn, “what brings two heroes like you to my bar?”

“Well, uh, nothing in particular.”

There was a curious tilt of the tabaxi’s head, before he leaned his chin on his hand, scratching the cream-white fur under his own chin curiously, and he said, “I must admit I would expect your types to be hanging about at the Yawning Portal this time of day. That’s what I might have been doing when I was your age.”

“Well, we thought there would be work, but we were mistaken,” Balthezar clarified, “We just came from a meeting with our group. Adventure, you know?”

“Oh I do, certainly. Antigone, Roses, and I have gotten into a couple scrapes in our day.”

“You?” asked Balthezar, tilting his own head at the Tabaxi.

“You doubt me?” demanded Red Sky, leaning back as if affronted, clutching the front of his jacket in mock shock, “I’ll have you know I am more dangerous than you know, and it is only by the grace of my associate Antigone that I am here, pursuing the mundane life.”

“Oh. Have you been long away from Chult, then?” asked Balthezar.

The tabaxi laughed, showing his sharp teeth, and leaned forward once again. Balthezar noted that this tabaxi always seemed to be in constant movement, never satisfied with sitting in one position. He seemed restless, and perhaps even a little bored, and the green dragonborn was doubtful that this creature would ever voluntarily do something as sedentary as open a bar.

“Very long away, yes,” he answered, “It has likely changed much since I was there last. I do not miss it. My home is… well, before I would have said my home is wherever I rest my head, but now I have my responsibilities.”

He waved vaguely towards the bar, as if that answered everything. Creon, his own curiosity beginning to pique, took up the conversation.

“And the Aarakocra?” Creon asked, “She ain’t Chultan, is she?”

“No, she is not. I came here with my son, but she came later. Don’t let the bashfulness fool you,” Red Sky said, nodding his head, “She’s probably more powerful than even I am. I got some tricks, but she’s got a way with animals and plants you wouldn’t believe.”

This information caused Balthezar to perk up, “A druid? In Waterdeep?”

Red Sky at Night nodded, drawn in by Balthezar’s fascination. Creon, recognizing Balthezar’s sudden interest and perhaps feeling more than a little jealous of his lover’s attraction to this odd stranger, increased the pressure of their squeezing hands. Red Sky seemed about to ask something when there was a sudden crash from behind the counter, causing everyone’s faces to turn to look as Antigone emerged from the kitchen, empty tankards clattering to the floor. She was holding a wobbling tray with two plates on it, and she moved slowly and carefully, trying not to let any of it spill.

“O-order up!” she cried as she placed the two plates down in front of Balthezar and Caliban. She then noticed that Red Sky at Night was sitting at the table as well, “Father?”

“Just having a nice conversation with these two boys. Balthezar, Creon, I’d like you both to meet my daughter Antigone.”

“O-oh. Uh. Hi.”

“Daughter?” asked Balthezar, blinking his eyes as he looked between the Aaracokra and Tabaxi, “Forgive my surprise, but…”

“Oh no, we get the funny looks all the time,” said Red Sky, “Eventually she will grow into her whiskers and her wings will fall off just as mine did, but until then she is my sweet Baby Bird.”

“Father…” Antigone muttered in response to the older man’s joke.

“I see, well. Greetings Antigone, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Balthezar. He had to admit, he didn’t think he would be meeting such strangers as these when he walked into this bar, but he was pleasantly surprised.

“You aren’t going to try to adopt these ones too, are you?” asked Antigone, suddenly, as she stared right at Red Sky, “We don’t need more freeloaders hanging around. It’s bad for business, you know. Goodness knows Roses drains the coffers enough, we don’t need two more…”

There was a brief silence as Antigone realized she was dressing down her father in front of guests. Balthezar tried to laugh to cut the tension, and Creon was as stone-faced as he ever was. Only Red Sky seemed at ease.

“Baby Bird…” muttered Red Sky.

In that instant, Antigone seemed to realize she had said the wrong thing and blinked her eyes, “Uh… I mean… E-enjoy your meal!”

She bowed so low and so suddenly that she hit her head on the table and chirped out in pain, holding her forehead with a talon. However, she attempted another bow, not as low this time, and backed away, retreating into the back room.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between the three of them as they digested Antigone’s words. After a moment, Red Sky at Night cleared his throat and spoke.

“She’s… blunt,” he said, “Sweet girl when you get to know her. Lost her father a little while ago. I’ve been taking care of her ever since.”

“That’s, uh, very kind of you,” said Balthezar, “I appreciate that she… speaks her mind? Is this Roses her… brother?”

Red Sky laughed, and, as if the floodgates began to open, Balthezar laughed as well. Creon did not, still somewhat uncomfortable.

“Not in the way you mean. Scent of Unnamed Roses is Tabaxi, like me. I also took him in when he was very young. He is a troublemaker.”

“You got a habit of adopting people, I see,” said Creon, “We ain’t really on the market.”

“I suspect that Mr. Red Sky at Night has a gregarious spirit,” Balthezar said, turning to face Creon with a smile, “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Okay, okay, so I like making sure everyone is taken care of,” said Red Sky, “I’ve heard some rumors about you two, alright? I got a soft spot for orphans. Can you blame me?”

“Kind of a… sore spot for me,” muttered Creon.

“I think what Creon is trying to say is that we appreciate your friendship for its own sake. No need to take us on as a charity case, Mr. Red Sky,” said Balthezar.

“Call me simply Red Sky if you please. I am pleased to know that you have found one another,” the golden-furred tabaxi said with a smile, “I’d be happy if Baby Bird and Roses found a group they were even half as close with. They hardly get along with one another. In all honesty, that’s what I really wanted to talk to you folks about.”

Red Sky’s smile began to fade, and It seemed a palpable change came over him, one that Balthezar and Creon both noticed almost immediately. The tabaxi sat up straight and ceased his constant adjustments to his posture. He folded his hands together as he looked down at the table, and then up at the two dragonborn. The only thing that moved was his tail whipping back and forth.

“You mentioned an adventure fell through today,” said the tabaxi, his ears swiveling towards the two adventurers.

Creon, feeling himself relax, nodded as he watched Balthezar begin to tuck into his meal of scrambled eggs and warm vegetables. Now that they seemed to be talking business, Creon decided it was his job to lead the conversation, “Yeah. A group of friends of ours. It’s been slow recently.”

“Sounds like my little family,” said Red Sky, “We got this bar as a prize from some guy for rescuing his friend. He didn’t tell us at the time it was such a dump. My Baby Bird decided to try to make it work, though. We thought we could supplement it with some cash from adventures, but suddenly, things started to dry up. She seemed so disappointed. I worry for her.”

“Worry?”

“She’s got a bit of a… goal in mind. She wants to live a long and peaceful life in harmony with the world, to honor her father’s memory… her real father. She wants to open this bar so we can retire, but… I’m afraid I can’t give that to her. I’m going crazy from sitting around all day, but seeing her so happy, it does my heart good. Roses, on the other hand? He goes away for days at a time, and when he does return, it is nothing but bickering between the two of them. We need cash flow to get the tavern a proper start and I need something for Roses to do before he disappears for good.”

“I… I see.”

Red Sky smiled a crooked grin, and Balthezar furrowed his brow, recognizing the kind of rakish charisma that Pequod and Creon could exhibit at will, “Well, if you have need of someone. Maybe you could take my two children along on your next adventure?”

“That… that’s a rather awkward suggestion, Red Sky,” said Balthezar, leaning away from the smile of the feline, sensing something slightly predatory in it, “I’m not really in charge. Pequod is the one you want to speak with, but he hasn’t taken on anyone new since Creon joined the outfit.”

Red Sky leaned forward, “Well, they would make it worth your while. Scent of Unnamed Roses is a tricky sort, you know? He has a good heart, but he uses it in sometimes sneaky ways, and dabbles a little in magic. My Baby Bird Antigone, as I said, has power over nature. They would both be excellent additions to any team…”

“That… sounds very promising, but still…” said Balthezar, but Creon interrupted him.

“This seems pretty sudden, Red Sky,” Creon snapped, his snarl returning as he stared with suspicion towards the tabaxi, “It’s a little weird that you’re trying to fob your kids off on the first two folks who walked through that door.”

“Well, I do have my own motivation. They are both getting older. Outgrowing the need for a father, you know? But also, they are quite devoted to me. I feel as if I need a way to… push them out of the nest, you know? An adventure without me could be just the thing.”

“Trying to use us in your family squabbles, then? Don’t like that one bit.”

“Noted,” said the Tabaxi, with a cool smile, before he turned to Balthezar and said, “Your friend Creon is a precious jewel. Keep him close by you always.”

“I… I agree with what Creon is saying, Red Sky,” Balthezar said, standing up with Creon, “I feel as if I would have agreed immediately a little while ago, but frankly, I feel as if this whole solicitation has been suspicious. I know better than to agree to something like this sight unseen.”

“But of course, but consider…” began Red Sky, pressing the topic, but Balthezar interrupted him.

“Wait, please,” Balthezar said, raising his hands, “Just… we’re not who you should talk to. Send the two of them to find us when we’re all together at the Eagleshield residence. If they’re as powerful as you say, surely Pequod will take them on if he can.”

With that, Creon stood as well, and Balthezar, with a sudden smile, placed a gold coin on the table to pay for their meal. Red Sky’ eyes went wide at the glint of gold and he stood.

“The meal was only…”

“Go on. You need help, yes?” Balthezar said with a smile, “You tried to adopt us, and then tried to shake us down on behalf of your son and daughter. You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

“Well… I wouldn’t say we’re in a healthy spot.”

There was a moment of pause then, as Balthezar looked into Red Sky’ face. He admired the man’s gumption in trying to help his kids to find work, and so he reached down to offer his hand to shake. The tabaxi stared at the dragonborn’s hand, and then looked up into his face, and the face of his companion, which seemed to soften just a bit in the face of his lover’s compassion. Red Sky’s face split into a bashful smile. Everything was out on the table now.

“Thank you, Balthezar, Creon.”

“Goodnight. Perhaps we’ll come in again.”

“I mean, once you’re a little further along in renovations,” snapped Creon, reaching down to take Balthezar’s hand again, “Kind of a dump in here.”

“Creon, please!”

With a smile bigger than he had given since entering the bar, Creon leaned his face close to Balthezar’s snout and answered with a quick glance towards the tabaxi, “Just because you like the decoration doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Wh-what?” asked Balthezar, before he began to blush, realizing at once that his lover had noticed his roaming eye over the form of this rakish stranger. He laughed as well, and the two of them shared a moment of good humor together, “O-oh. Uh. Sorry. Goodnight, Red Sky. Until we meet again.”

“Until then!” said the golden-furred tabaxi, picking up the gold coin and watching as the two dragonborn slowly walked from the bar, teasing one another as they went. The Red Sky’s tail calmed itself in that moment as he relaxed, and he waited for Antigone to reemerge. As much as he wanted to respect her wishes to settle down and make a proper life, he knew adventure was the only thing they could truly do to finance his daughter’s dream, and to satisfy his son’s wanderlust. One last job, he supposed, and then that would be that. He would send the two of them to go find this dragonborn’s group together, and hopefully there would be treasure enough for them to satisfy both Antigone and Roses’ dreams. He would miss them, but such was life, he supposed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Argo searches for his heroes, while the two children of Red Sky at Night are given an assignment together.

With nowhere in particular to stay that evening, Argo intended to take up Pequod’s invitation sooner rather than later, and after spending most of the afternoon gathering his strength in the Yawning Portal, he decided it would do him good to walk to the North Ward and try to find the address on the card Pequod had given him. Leaning heavily on his quarterstaff, Argo walked through the streets of Waterdeep as late afternoon transitioned into dusk.

While no one had bothered him in the bar, where Pequod’s silent warning had warded off any trouble, out on the open street, Argo knew better than to let his guard down. He kept to the main roads, walking slowly up the High Road from the Trades Ward, past the city of the dead, a large graveyard on the eastern side of the city, and making his way to the noble North Ward. He had asked for directions, and was confident that he would arrive soon, but as he walked, he realized for the first time just how big a city Waterdeep actually was. He expected a walk of maybe five minutes, but half a bell passed by the time he made it to what he understood to be the North Ward. When he arrived, he found himself immediately out of place.

Of course, being as he was a tortle, he had received many odd looks from passersby, but in the low places in the city, the looks were brief, and he looked just as often at creatures he had never seen before as they went about their days. Here, however, that all changed. In the North Ward, it was all humans, dressed in expensive garments and leaving their homes in horse-drawn carriages to go about their evening festivities. The women wore fanciful dresses ballooned out by wide-hooped crinolines, and the men dressed in slashed velvet and high-collared shirts made stiff with starch, with tall stove-pipe hats which they doffed to the ladies and gentlemen they passed by on the street. As he passed a few of those gentlemen by, they did not doff their hats to the large tortoise ambling through their neighborhood wearing a filthy robe and leaning on a rough-hewn walking stick. They sneered, and Argo knew instinctively that he was not in a place that was meant for one of his kind.

Looking down at the card Pequod had given him, Argo knew it would be down to him to try to interpret the address written down. The numbers, it seemed, were hidden from casual observers somewhat, and once Argo had found the correct street, he had a fairly difficult time trying to figure out which of these extravagant homes with their high-walled gardens and rose-covered trellises was the home of the Eagleshield family. He considered trying to ask someone but knew that would be no help. They would sooner summon a policeman than give him the time of day. He would have to navigate the city streets on his own. He breathed in deeply and gave a faint prayer to his grandmother then, knowing that he had navigated the Trackless Sea and the Sea of Swords to fulfil his purpose here. Finding the right house on an upper-class street was within his means!

Just then, as he resolved himself with new purpose to continue his search, he heard something from a thin alley formed between two high walls encircling two mansions next door to one another. It had been a soft coo, like a bird, and Argo very nearly thought nothing of it. However, he remembered the sound from the bar as well, and, furrowing his scaly brow, he squinted his eyes and peered down the alley, suspicious all of a sudden.

It was dark, the dusk light giving him very little to see by, but that was not particularly a problem for him. Fire was simple enough to conjure, and soon, the tip of his quarterstaff was set ablaze, and he used the light from the makeshift torch to illuminate the alley. There was no one there, and nothing but a trash can.

“Who’s there?” he called out, calmly, “I know you’ve been following me.”

There was no response, which made the tortle clench his beak in concern. He was just about to move on from the alley when he saw emerge from the inside of the trash can, a pigeon. It seemed the same as any other city bird, except that its feathers were a pure white. It picked about the trash, acting for all intents and purposes like a normal bird. Argo had to laugh.

“You must know I need not see you to make your life a living hell right now,” Argo called into the alley, raising a hand and letting some residual power coalesce in his palm, white and smoking from the sheer drop in temperature, “I know what a familiar looks like when I see one. I am going to count to three, and if you do not show yourself before then, it won’t matter how well you’re hidden.”

There was a moment of silence in answer, as the pigeon stared at the robed tortle. Argo simple smiled back, making eye contact with it, knowing there was a good chance that the eyes of whoever was following him were staring back at him.

“One,” said Argo, counting slowly, but steadily, not in any particular hurry, “Two.”

At this, the pigeon alighted, flying up from the garbage can and flapping its way towards Argo. He did not particularly feel threatened by the bird, knowing that if its owner cast anything through it he could certainly protect himself, and so he allowed the familiar to land on his shell and coo. A moment later, there was another laugh, and Argo looked back towards the alley.

“No, my friend,” the voice said, “Up here.”

Argo looked up, following his eyes with his hand to keep the threat of a wizard’s wrath on the table, and narrowed his eyes when he saw a creature he had never encountered before coming to Waterdeep. The same cat-like creature he had seen in the Yawning portal was sitting, cross-legged on top of the wall, smiling down at him. The cat-man seemed young and shockingly skinny, but he had bright yellow eyes and a shock of white fur which started beneath his chin and seemed to run down the front of his chest, and his whiskers appeared to have been waxed and formed into curled handlebars. He wore no shoes over his paws, but was otherwise absolutely bedecked in some sort of flamboyant costume with a wide, sequined collar, beaded tassels hanging from his sleeves, and at least three brightly colored scarves tied at various angles around his waist in place of a belt. Between the scarves, the coat, and the equally flamboyant trousers he wore, the cat appeared to be wearing at least one of every color known to man, but was dominated mostly by a bright, scarlet red. Argo was astonished that such a colorful character could have been hidden so well.

“Well, you call me friend so casually, even though we’ve never met,” said Argo, lowering his hand, but not his guard, “Keep your hands where I can see them, now.”

“I shall,” said the tabaxi, reaching up to stroke his whiskers idly with one paw while his other was palm out towards the tortle, “You simply seemed lost. Perhaps you would like some help?”

“You could have helped any time between here and the Yawning Portal,” Argo noted with calm annoyance, “Who are you?”

“Of course. Introductions are in order!” the cat said, excitedly, as he clapped his paws together and grinned wide, “My name is a mouthful, are you ready?”

“Just tell me. I have been walking a long time. I would like to reach my destination eventually.”

“Ah yes! We are all on busy schedules, forgive me!” said the Tabaxi, swaying a bit as his grin resolved into a smirk, “I am known as Scent of Unnamed Roses.”

“Scent of…?” Argo began to repeat, puzzled.

“It is a whole thing, Tabaxi names!” the cat said, eyes widening. With a flick of his wrist, a playing card suddenly appeared in the tabaxi’s hand, and Argo stiffened, raising a hand reflexively to counter the spell. He realized a moment later that no spell had been cast. The cat had used a simple bit of sleight of hand. Roses soon turned the card over, revealing a king of hearts. “It is to do with the circumstances of our birth, the place where we are destined to be, or astrological signs, and, most often, what our parents wish for us to become, or what we wish for ourselves to be instead. A name may change many times in a life. Mine has only changed once that I know of.”

“Riddles. Quaint,” Argo muttered, growing impatient, “Are you going to lead me where I’m going, or are you planning to just rob me right here and now?”

“Rob you? You insult me my new friend,” said the Tabaxi, flicking the card from one hand to the other.

Argo knew better than to follow the movements of that playing card. That was a distraction. The Tabaxi was trying to attract his gaze to capture his attention. Reflexively, Argo placed a hand on the pouch where he knew the diamond was, and, finding the reassuring weight of the last of Yygrall’s treasure was still there, he relaxed slightly.

“I simply saw a tortle in need and, well, I am a good person, my friend-who-has-been-too-rude-to-introduce-himself. I have no intention of robbing you.”

“That’s good,” said Argo, “You may call me Argo.”

“Just Argo?” asked Roses, with genuine curiosity, “It seems such a simple name.”

“My people don’t have anything in particular in mind when it comes to names, it seems,” said the tortle, finding himself charmed by the inquisitive expression of this cat, despite the odd nature of this meeting. Not needing the light anymore, Argo tapped his quarterstaff on the street and extinguished the flame. “I’m sure I would like to know more about your people another time, but I am looking for a certain residence. Do you know a family called the…”

All of a sudden, however, Argo seemed at once to burst into sudden flames! He blinked his eyes, unconcerned that he was wreathed in bright, hot fire. While the fire consumed him, it did not burn him and he widened his eyes. Realizing what had just happened, he moved his hand from the pouch with the diamond to the other pouch at his side, a bag of stones he had carried with him from his homeland, and, suddenly desperate, he looked back towards Roses.

The cat, with nimble poise, was running along the top of the wall, laughing with glee as he retreated with his prize. Argo, a sudden, annoyed anger in his face, dug a piece of clear crystal out of another pouch at his side with a hemispherical bit of gum upon it. He was not in the mood for destruction today, and so, instead of the violent evocation he had planned to cast before, he instead opted for a gentler but no less effective option. He waved his hand over the component to the spell and spoke a word of power.

As Roses retreated over the wall, he was confident that he had managed to escape scot free! In his hand he held the bag of precious stones he had managed to snag for the tortle, and he knew for a fact he would be able to outrun him in a second. He gave one last purr of pleasure, but it was cut short when he suddenly rammed up against a wall. Taken unawares by the spell, he raised his hands to try to find out what he had smacked into, and found that between him and freedom, there was suddenly a clear, barely visible sphere of force. He turned to try to escape it, but found that the sphere had completely encircled him, and he blinked his eyes. He looked down and saw that the sphere was teetering on the edge of the wall, and he realized with a sudden dread that it was rolling off and into the alley. He yowled in sudden fear as the sphere of force fell from the wall and into the alley, and he felt himself jostle around as it bounced hard against the ground.

It took a moment for Roses to recover his senses, and when he did, he saw a faint glow of fire coming from outside of the resilient sphere. He was lying down, cradled up against the ball of force, and as he looked up, he saw the tortle, still wreathed in fire, smiling down at him through the bubble. The tabaxi couldn’t help but smile back.

“A contingency spell, eh? Very clever. I did not expect you to be able to react so quickly. You are more powerful than I expected.”

“The first thing one learns of the stones is how to protect them,” said Argo, his voice muffled on the other side of the ball of force, “I expected pickpockets, and the fire shield would burn them before they could steal anything from me. However, you’re very impressive as well. I didn’t even see you steal my stones.”

“Ah yes! The stones!” cried the tabaxi, apparently unconcerned that he was at the wizard’s mercy. He produced Argo’s bag from behind his back and undid the drawstring, before he pulled a few of the smooth, flat stones from within. His eyes lit up as he inspected the draconic runes carved into them, and Argo was faintly uneasy to see someone else handling his life’s work so casually, “This is the one, yes? I have seen it before. Resilient Sphere, named for a mister Otiluke, yes?”

“I know no one named Otiluke. This spell was passed down through my master’s teachings.”

“And… Ooh! You have a lot of goodies in here, don’t you?” said the tabaxi, digging through the bag as if it contained beautiful gems, “This one is… Cone of Cold, yes? And here is Fireball, a classic. And, ah! Souped-up invisibility. A personal favorite of mine. I hope to know it someday. I only have the basic model.”

“I don’t think you realize the trouble you’re in here, Scent of Unnamed Roses. I’m a Wizard. You’re a thief. I’m not going to just let you walk away with my spell stones.”

“I am sorry my friend, Argo, but I simply could not resist!” he said, grinning again without any apparent fear, “I have never seen a spellbook quite like this. I needed to take a closer look. I would have given it back.”

“It seems like you’re interested in learning magic. Perhaps you wouldn’t have.”

“I promise I would!” cried Roses, for the first time seeming annoyed with the tortle as he stood and leaned against the bubble of force, “I am no thief. I am a magician! Surely you saw it!”

“I saw a few tricks. Familiars and card tricks are basic enough.”

“Well, I am still learning! And you did not even see my mage hand stealing your stones, yes?”

“Mage hand…?”

Argo looked around but saw nothing until he realized that there was a pouch hanging by something invisible in the air in front of him. He moved his hand down to the diamond and realized that it was gone. He reached for the pouch, and it dangled into the air just out of his reach. The Tabaxi laughed gaily, sitting back down cross-legged as he conducted the invisible mage hand’s movement from within his bubble.

“As charming as all of this is, Roses, I would not suggest tempting the wrath of a magician of my caliber.”

“You would not hurt me.”

“Oh? and why is that?”

“Because, you are searching for people with talent, yes? To help you with something.”

“So you were listening in on my conversation with Pequod?”

“My dove’s ears are my ears, my friend Argo,” said Roses, “I sense also that you are a gentle soul. Otherwise you would not have trapped me in this bubble. You would have instead used… hmmm.”

Roses looked through the spell stones once again and picked out a particularly large, flat rock which had been smoothed and etched with relatively recent runes. The tabaxi laughed as he held it up, recognizing after a moment the spell.

“A spell for setting someone on fire, yes?” said Roses, “If you were a wrathful person, you would have simply set me ablaze and turned me to ashes. Instead, you wished to talk. I like you, my friend Argo.”

Argo sighed, but couldn’t help but smile, “I would be uncomfortable simply killing you, yes. You seem so young.”

“But not to be underestimated, obviously!” Roses said with a smile as he conducted his mage hand, letting the pouch with Argo’s diamond in it dangle over the Tortle’s head. He lowered it down and Argo was able to snatch it out of the air soon after.

“Obviously,” said Argo, thoughtfully, as he replaced the diamond in its proper place, “Well, as much as I enjoy this conversation, I really do need my spell stones back. I don’t want you running away once the sphere fades. Can I be assured that you’ll give them back…?”

“Roses! Where are you?” cried a sudden voice, and both the tabaxi and tortle looked around for the source.

With a clatter, a raccoon suddenly emerged from one side of the alley, knocking over the garbage can as it did. The animal, in the face of the tortle wreathed in fire and the tabaxi trapped in a sphere of pure magic, seemed to have no fear as it approached, before sitting on its haunches and raising its little hands as if getting Roses’ attention.

“Father’s got a job for us!” said the raccoon, in a slight, chirpy voice with a northern accent, “Get back here. We’re going tonight!”

With that, the spell seemed to end, and the raccoon, suddenly faced with the intimidating sight of the magician, scurried away, hiding in the overturned trash can. Argo stared at where the raccoon went. That was druidic magic, certainly, but what had that message meant?

“Ugh. I apologize,” said Roses, seeming annoyed, “My sister.”

“Your… Sister?”

“I must go, but I am glad to have met you, friend Argo,” said Roses, before he placed the stones back in the bag and offered it to the tortle, “I will not keep this, but if you will allow me I would love to read through your spells some time. I am very interested in magic, you see.”

“I do see,” said Argo, with a smile, “Unfortunately, I don’t expect to be in town for long if everything goes well, but if I am, I’m sure you have the means to find me.”

“Indeed! You are hard to miss!”

Argo couldn’t help but laugh. This creature’s brazen, fearless attitude towards the obvious danger he was in pleased the tortle. He considered briefly inviting him to Pequod’s crew, to see if he could be of some use to him but thought better of it. He appeared to have another engagement.

With a wave of his hand, Argo dispelled the bubble, before reaching down and holding out a hand for his bag. Roses gladly handed the bag back to him before he stood and gave a sharp whistle. Soon, his familiar emerged from where it had retreated from Argo’s flames, and landed on his shoulder.

“I would shake your hand for outsmarting me so soundly, but you are a little bit on fire still,” said Roses, “So I will instead say that we shall meet again. You must teach me some tricks, and I will be happy to teach you some as well. Is it a deal?”

Argo smiled, sensing that the boy was genuine, and nodded, “Alright. I’ll play along with that. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

With one last grand smile, Roses pointed behind the tortle and said, “The house you seek is two blocks to the left. You will see it when you see the wrought iron gate with the zoo in the back.”

Argo smiled, and said, “Thank you, Roses.”

“Any time, my friend, goodbye for now.”

With that, the tabaxi began to saunter away, walking at first backwards with a smile and a wave, before turning and continuing to walk. Argo held the bag of spell stones in his hand, and felt the weight of it with eyes closed, before he smiled one last time, sighing deeply.

“Roses.”

“Hm?” said Roses, looking over his shoulder with an innocent look, “Yes?”

Argo opened his eyes and tilted his head, “I need all of my stones, please.”

Roses seemed to deflate all at once as he whimpered, his tail drooping in disappointment, but even so, he pulled his hands from his pocket and produced two small stones. He handed them to his familiar, one in each little talon, and the dove flew back to Argo and dropped the two stones into the tortle’s bag. Argo watched them settle, and once the weight felt right, he nodded and tied the bag shut.

“Thank you R…” he began, but when he looked up, he saw that the tabaxi was already gone from the alley. He turned once again to see the familiar and was just in time to see the fey creature disappear in a faint sparkle of fairy dust. The people of the outside world were odd, Argo decided, but were quite interesting!

Replacing all of his things in their proper places, Argo continued his journey, shaking the fire off of his robes as he went to prevent any awkward questions or panicked stares from the people who passed him by. Roses’ directions were spot on, and soon, he managed to find the mansion belonging to these mysterious Eagleshields. He approached the front gate and prepared to make himself known.

\--

Roses reveled in the feeling of being watched, and the North Ward, with nothing but human nobility walking about, gave him exactly what he wanted. The flamboyant tabaxi smiled brightly as he walked down the street, knowing that his sister would find him eventually if he stayed out in the open for long enough. As he thought, soon, there was the sound of flapping wings and he looked up with an impatient smile.

Antigone had a worried expression on her face as she flapped her wings, coming to a careful landing on the street near Scent of Unnamed Roses. She realizes she was in a sleepy human neighborhood and she took the opportunity to turn towards a grouping of humans she had frightened and apologized profusely. She then marched up to Roses.

“There you are!” she cried, her voice shrill, “I’ve been looking all over for you. Father says…”

“Ah yes, what does Father say?” interrupted Roses, stretching his arms as he walked on away from Antigone. She had to hurry to catch up, flapping her wings a little to make up for her awkward, bird-like gait. “I assume he wishes for me to come home and wait tables with you, yes? Perhaps we will have a good time bonding over contract negotiations with the brewer’s guild.”

Antigone gave a light chirp of annoyance then as she clicked her beak open and shut. She rushed forward then and grabbed hold of her brother’s long, feline tail, before tugging it sharply. Roses gave a sharp yowl then, and turned towards his sister, rage in his eyes as he pulled his tail away from her.

“Stop that!”

“I will once you stop being a jerk. Father’s doing his best for the bar.”

“I did not ask for him to try so hard. Things were just fine before this bar came through our hands, you know.”

“We need security. We won’t be able to go out on adventures to make money forever. Trollskull Manor is…”

“It is your baby, Baby bird, not mine and not father’s,” snapped Roses, “I knew him first. I have known him the longest. You think you know what is best, but you are going to kill him if you force him to settle down.”

“You don’t speak for father!”

“I speak for myself! I know myself and I know that father is very much more like me than he is like you!” Roses all but screamed, quickly losing his cool, “Just because he took pity on you…”

“Stop it!” Antigone screamed, flinching from the nasty tone her brother took with her. She refused to break eye contact. Her small beak seemed to open and close, trembling in anger and sorrow. Roses had a faint pang of guilt within as he watched his sister react to his jabs, but she soon breathed in, centering herself, before she continued, “This has nothing to do with the bar. Father has a job for us.”

“A real job?” asked Roses, smiling suddenly, all the animosity towards his sister melting away in an instant, “Not another errand?”

“There were a couple of adventurers who came into the bar this morning. Father spoke with them and…” Antigone began, the suspicion in her eyes obvious as she finally broke eye contact with her brother, “Well, Father decided to send the two of us to help these adventurers.”

“Just the two of us? He isn’t coming?” Roses muttered, disappointment on his face.

“I know,” Antigone said, quietly, “but he said he wants to tend the bar and continue the renovations.”

Scent of Unnamed Roses was silent for another instant, deep in apparent thought. It took Roses longer than Antigone expected for him to answer, and she was about to say his name to ask what was the matter before he forced a wide grin onto his face and shrugged his shoulders. His tail began to whip back and forth as he tilted his head in thought, before he began to walk on, expecting Antigone to follow.

“So, who are these people? Where must we go?”

“It was a pair of dragonborn. One had a holy symbol around his neck to a god of knowledge, and the other was obviously tough, and had hands that were used to swinging a sword around. They seemed skilled and had enough money that they didn’t mind dropping a whole gold coin for two ales and the special.”

“Amazing. You should be paying other people to eat your swill.”

“Roses…”

With a laugh, Scent of Unnamed Roses slowed his gait so that his long, tabaxi legs did not outpace his sister’s shorter Aaracokra stature. He looked around the North Ward and continued.

“So, dragonborn probably means… Trades Ward? Dock Ward? Is there a temple we can call on them at since the one is a holy man?”

“Nope. The house should be around this neighborhood.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“Um…” Antigone stammered, obviously still unused to big city life. She looked around, confused, and tried to divine the direction to go, before she gave up and said, “Someone named, er, Eagleshield?”

Roses’ face lit up then, to Antigone’s surprise, and all at once he snatched the Aaracokra’s talon-like hand up in his own. Antigone gave a peep of shock as she was suddenly pulled along the street, and she stumbled to keep up, flapping her wings to try to keep her balance.

“Roses? What are you…?”

“Come along, Baby Bird!” said Roses, with a twinkle in his eye and a lilt to his voice, “I get to introduce you to a friend of mine!”

\--

Hotspur, sour expression on her face, sat at her vanity, slowly running a brush through her long, black hair. The conversation at the bar had been running through her head for hours now, and she could feel her orcish jaw clenching. She regretted blowing up at Pequod, to tell the truth, but she knew she would never tell him that. The lack of work had gotten on her nerves recently, and she almost wished she had said yes to the job in Red Larch. Even so, she knew if she had said yes, she would have been just as miserable, complaining the whole way there, complaining about whatever unlucky bandits they would chop the heads from, and complaining the whole way back.

Putting the brush down on her vanity, Hotspur then began to idly tie up her hair in a loose braid draped over her shoulder. She wondered how they were going to overcome this dry spot. What Pequod had said was, after all, true. The longer they went without work, the less fresh their accomplishments would be and the fewer jobs they would ultimately get. Even so, everyone seemed to be settling. She had her social obligations, as well as the illusion of her betrothal to Vanya Greylash in Baldur’s Gate, Balthezar had his library, Creon was reckoning with having been invited into the 'Cloudgazer clan,' Caliban had a cause to fight for all of a sudden, and Puck had his warren. They all had something tying them down to Waterdeep. All of them except Pequod.

With a sigh, Hotspur paused in the middle of her braid. That’s what it really came down to, wasn’t it? Pequod was desperate. Hotspur knew settling down wasn’t an option for him, ultimately. To settle, for a tortle, meant death.

Hotspur shrugged and continued braiding, knowing she didn’t have an answer in particular. When her fingers touched something small and scaly in her hair, however, she blinked her eyes and looked down.

At the lower end of her hair, small, rust-colored hands were nimbly weaving her hair from the bottom-up into a bizarre, criss-crossed pattern. Puck had his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he attempted to help the half orc braid her hair. Hotspur’s eyes went wide.

“What the fuck, Puck!” she screamed, and the kobold gave a small screech of fright, diving underneath the vanity. Hotspur stood, then, letting go of her hair and letting the half-finished braid unravel and fall. She pushed her chair back and screamed again, “What are you doing?”

“Helping!” Puck called back, peeking out from under the vanity.

Hotspur blinked her eyes, before she looked down at the hair draped over her shoulder. The bizarre braid pattern Puck had been tying her hair into seemed more akin to weaving a carpet than braiding hair, and she immediately began to attempt to untie the knots the kobold had put in.

“Oh Gods! What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t know how you like your hair done. I thought this would look nice.”

Hotspur was about to scream at the kobold to get out of her room. She was very close to simply kicking the tiny creature across the room, but she stopped herself. She knew Puck. He never did anything without a reason. He could be an awkward weirdo, but he always meant well. With a sigh, Hotspur rolled her eyes and sat back down, slowly trying to undo the odd knots in her hair.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Something’s wrong,” snapped Hotspur, “You’re trying too hard to be helpful. That never ends well. I’d rather you just get it out into the open instead of ruining my… Gods! Did you tie this with a sailor’s knot?”

“Er… sorry.”

“Just…” Hotspur growled, “What is it? I thought you were going to do some business with the warren today.”

Puck, still hidden beneath the vanity, slowly began to crawl out and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until Hotspur gestured to one of the chairs set around the room. Puck climbed into one, his feet dangling up off the ground, and he scratched his head.

“Uhh… I was, but, well. Ssylo has things under control and…” he began, “It’s about Pequod.”

“Thought so,” said Hotspur, “I was thinking the same thing when I was so rudely interrupted.”

“I don’t know how to talk about it with him. I think he’d be mad, but… I think he’s homesick.”

“Homesick? Pequod?” scoffed Hotspur, taking up the brush again as soon as the knots were more or less excised from her hair, “Unlikely. You should hear him talk about Chult.”

“I have, yeah, but… well…” Puck began, crossing his arms as he thought long and hard about the tortle, “I just got this feeling, y’know? It doesn’t take long for a Kobold to get homesick, you know? You learn to spot the signs.”

“And what if he is?”

“Well, maybe its time for him to go home?”

Hotspur stopped her brushing for a moment, closing her eyes. She continued to brush a moment later, her face impassive, until she spoke, “I wouldn’t suggest that if I were you.”

“But…”

“He’s not a kobold,” Hotspur muttered, “He’s barely a tortle. He’s unique, and he’s been fighting against his people’s instincts his whole life. Telling him to succumb to them now…”

“But is this, y’know, healthy? I mean, he’s got us, and we’re like family, right? But it’s our job to look out for each other. If he starts getting prickly and depressed…”

“I know. I don’t want to see the end of this group any more than you do,” said Hotspur, “Pequod’s the glue holding us all together, ultimately. He organized all of us together, he keeps us in line in his own way, he gets the jobs. Maybe we take him for granted. Still, I know him, and I know he won’t accept help from any of us about his past.”

The kobold fell silent, then, a frown forming on his draconic snout as he leaned against the arm of his chair. He thought hard for a moment, looking away from the half-orc.

“Someone can help, maybe. There’s got to be someone. If he’s the glue, then what happens if he buckles? Or worse, what happens if he goes away?”

“Not everyone needs to be fixed, Puck,” Hotspur said.

The kobold rumbled low, or at least as low as the creature’s high-pitched voice could, and he slowly slid down off the chair.

“Sorry about scaring you,” said Puck, “And for tying your hair in knots. I don’t know how to braid hair, I guess.”

“I can teach you,” muttered Hotspur, as she once again took her hair into her hands and began to braid it, “Not that it would be much use for you or the others. I suppose Balthezar could braid those hair… tentacle… things dragonborn have if they grew long enough.”

Puck’s face brightened then, as he rushed up and watched for a while as Hotspur continued to braid her hair, looking down at Puck with an almost warm expression. However, before she could begin to explain what she was doing, a knock at the door sounded, and her butler spoke.

“Lady Hellena,” said the butler, “There is a… visitor to see you. He has one of the tortle’s cards.”

Hotspur and Puck turned to stare at the door, before they turned to stare towards one another. Hotspur found herself smiling in sudden excitement as she realized that Pequod may have come through for them after all. She jerked her head to the side and spoke.

“I’ll teach you later,” she said, “Get out. I have to get dressed. Go see who’s there.”

“Right!” Puck said, happily as he scurried out the door to meet their visitor.

\--

Argo had never seen a place like the foyer of the Eagleshield residence. He was no stranger to riches, so the gold and silver surfaces did not interest him much, but he admired most the architecture of the house. He wondered what it was built out of – what wood, where it was hauled in from, how it had been treated, how it had been reinforced – and wondered for a moment if he might some day try to improve the living conditions of his homeland with techniques he might learn from this house. He wandered the foyer for a moment, having been left to his own devices, and felt the cool marble under his clawed feet. He touched the banister of the staircase. Oak, he decided, a wood he was not used to but seemed so relatively common here.

“So,” came a familiar voice from up above, and Argo, not sure if he was allowed to touch anything, pulled his hand away from the polished wood. He looked up and soon saw the other, bulkier tortle standing at the top of the grand staircase. “I thought you might come tonight.”

“Pequod. Hello again,” Argo said with a smile, “Glad to see I have the right place. It took me a while to find it.”

“You’re a smart guy. I figured you’d be able to figure it out eventually,” the bard said with a chuckle, as he walked down the stairs slowly, his own thick tortle mitt sliding down the banister, “The rest of the house should be aware of our visitor soon. The lady of the house is certainly in, and I think I saw our ranger scurrying around somewhere, but I’m not sure where the cleric and the snoop are.”

“I look forward to meeting everyone in time.”

“Good, c’mon.”

Without even stopping to shake hands, Pequod passed right by the other tortle and began to move towards a side room. He pushed the doors open, humming a jaunty tune, and the sound of it put Argo slightly on edge.

“I know music is the conduit for your power, Pequod. I would be more at ease if you didn’t hum so carelessly. I still don’t know if I trust you and your friends completely.”

“That’s just fine by me,” said Pequod as he entered a large lounge area, walking right up to the cabinet and beginning to rummage around for some decanters, “I’m not trustworthy, generally. To you, however, since you’re going to have a job for us, you’ve nothing to fear for now. Sit down. What do you drink?”

Argo looked around at the assembly of chairs set up in the lounge and, considering the size of the bulk in his shell, opted to sit on one of the heftier pieces – a fainting couch with a solid frame which only groaned slightly when he put his weight on it.

“I don’t, generally, but I will take something sweet if you have it,” said Argo, “Cider or the like.”

“Cider!” Pequod said, with a scoff, before he reached for a decanter of deep brown liqueur and poured a small portion of it into a glass with ice. He then poured himself a simple neat whisky and turned with a smile to walk across the room and hand the drink to his guest, “Here. Purple Hills Schnapps. Ever had Quince?”

“Is that a fruit?” asked Argo, curious, as he took the cool glass of liquor.

“Like an apple or a pear, but more tart.”

“I’ve never had either. I had oranges on the boat to stave off sick,” said Argo, before he took a sip and considered the taste for a moment. His expression brightened immediately at the floral aroma, and the sweet, tart taste. “Ah. It’s good.”

“Careful. The sweetest drinks are the ones that betray you the next morning,” Pequod said with a smirk before he took a sip of his own drink. He then sauntered to one side of the cabinet and leaned up against it. “Speaking of which, anything else I should know about this treasure hunt of yours before my compatriots get here?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told you all I can.”

“Sure, sure. Unclaimed treasure from a dragon. Right.”

“If you don’t believe me, then…”

“I’ll reserve judgement until my party gets here.”

Argo was silent at this, sensing that there was still some suspicion aimed his way from this other Tortle. He knew he should have expected this. His story was too good to be true, but still, he needed the help.

“Hi!” cried a voice suddenly, and Argo found himself looking around for the source of the small, high-pitched greeting. Soon, the voice said, “Down here!” and Argo tipped his eyes down to look.

Puck was already seated next to the tortle, and Argo was fascinated at once. He had never seen a Kobold in person before, and had no idea at all what this small, reptilian creature actually was. With a smile, Argo tilted his head and regarded the rust-colored creature with curiosity.

“Hello,” said Argo.

“Oh, good, Puck, you’re here!” said Pequod, “Argo, this is Puck. He’s our nature-boy. Excellent tracker, and clingy as all get-out.”

“Nature-boy!” cried Puck, turning towards Pequod and standing up on the couch as he shook his fist, “I’ll have you know I’m a city boy now! I’ve lived in Waterdeep for three years! That’s like forever!”

“You can take boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy,” muttered Pequod in a teasing tone as he walked forward and raised his glass as if he had given a suave toast, “Want something while I’m up and raiding the Eagleshield’s stores?”

“Wine! Frostberry wine! The good stuff!” Puck said, before he turned to Argo and said, with pinkies extended, “For my refined pallet-y.”

“That’s _palate,_ ” said Pequod, delivering the drink into the kobold’s hands with a smile.

Puck was silent, his annoyed scowl clear as he held the glass sized for a human in two claws. A moment later he dipped his entire snout into it and began to lap it up like a dog. Argo continued his fascinated staring, eyes bright.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Puck,” said Argo.

“You too!” said Puck, deep purple liquid dripping from his chin.

“Hotspur should be down fairly soon. You know where the lovebirds are off to, Puck?”

“None of my business!” he answered with a smile.

Pequod was about to serve another round of sass to the Kobold, when the door opened and the Eagleshield family butler stepped into the lounge. He gave a harsh look to the three reptilian creatures raiding his master’s liquor cabinet but ignored it as he straightened his back and turned up his large nose, announcing, “Lady Hellena Eagleshield.”

“That’s enough, Ferdinand,” said the harsh voice of the woman on the other side of the door as she pushed through all of a sudden, nearly pushing the butler over.

The half-orc woman had finally finished that braid, which hung free and loose behind her back, and she wore a sharp tweed suit which hugged her muscular figure. Without inquiring about her guest, she made a bee-line for the liquor cabinet and began to pour herself a stiff double of the same amber whisky Pequod was drinking. With drink in hand, she finally turned and regarded Argo, letting her eyes roam up and down the tortle’s form before she smiled, displaying her tusks, and gauging his reaction.

Argo was quite surprised, and he showed it with a curious, fascinated smile. Disappointed at not seeing any horror at all at the revelation that Lady Hellena Eagleshield was half orc, she took a sip of her drink and began to speak.

“So, Pequod. Friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. He’s going to be our new client,” said Pequod, “Argo, this is Hotspur. Don’t let the noble setting fool you. She’s even tougher than she looks if you can believe it.”

“Well, should we wait for Mr. and Mr. Cloudgazer to get back or get down to business now.”

“I would prefer it if Argo only had to explain once,” said Pequod, before he smiled brightly and winked an eye, “And I’d like Cloudgazer here for… other reasons.”

Hotspur sighed, before shrugging her shoulders and walking across the room to find a seat in a plush armchair which was, astonishingly, slightly oversized for her. She slouched, slinging one of her legs over the arm of the chair, and took a drink.

“Tell me about yourself, Argo. Chultan, I presume?”

Argo smiled, shaking his head, “No indeed. I hear that is an impossibility, but I have never been to Chult.”

“Oh? Interesting.”

“So I hear,” Argo muttered, his smile never leaving him, “I am a mage of some power, at the very least, so if you come with me on this expedition I will be able to…”

“Hold your horses there, Argo,” said Hotspur, both feet suddenly on the floor as she leaned forward in her seat, “Not until the rest of the gang gets here.”

Argo fell silent then, and the rest of the room followed suit. Puck looked around with his eyes, still with his snout dipped into the wine, moving his gaze from Argo, to Pequod, and then to Hotspur as the three of them watched the others with silent, meaningful looks of suspicion.

Finally, Puck cleared his throat and said, “The weather’s been nice.”

Resounding silence answered, and Puck, finally able to read the room, fell silent along with it.

Soon, however, there came another knock upon the door to the lounge and both Hotspur and Pequod smiled. Hotspur called out, “Come in!” and soon the door opened.

From the foyer came Balthezar first, smile on his face, and followed close after by Creon. Immediately, Balthezar began to speak, “Hello everyone. Ferdinand said you would be in… oh! Hello.”

He saw the tortle sitting on the couch and froze, blinking his eyes, before he smiled brightly and walked forward. Creon followed behind, muttering something into the hall before he closed the door behind him.

“I didn’t realize we had a guest,” said Balthezar, walking forward eagerly to greet the unfamiliar person in their midst. He offered a hand for Argo to shake and continued, “My name is Balthezar, sometimes called Cloudgazer if you like. It is a pleasure to meet you Mr…?”

“Argo,” he answered, smiling as he shook hands with the green dragonkin. He was pleased to see that this cleric was at least more polite than the rest of the group, “My pleasure, of course.”

Balthezar’s eyes scanned over the tortle’s garb in an instant, and the pleasant expression on his face seemed to light up even more. Argo realized that he had spotted the component pouch at his side.

“And a mage as well!” said the green dragonborn, intensifying the handshake, “Always a pleasure to meet a practitioner.”

“I see. Thank you very much, Mr. Cloudgazer.”

“Just Cloudgazer is fine, of course,” said Balthezar, before he gestured towards Creon, who had stopped just after entering the room, “Creon?”

Creon Nastiar walked a few feet closer than, nodding his head, but unwilling to give away too much to this stranger, “Hi.”

“He’s a man of few words,” said Pequod, deciding that now was the time to take back control of the conversation, “Anyway, now that you’re here…”

“Oh! Wait a moment, Pequod. I have guests as well!”

“Guests?” Pequod muttered, furrowing his brow.

Hotspur took up the question, seeming annoyed, “What kind of guests? You know I don’t like too many strangers tromping around my house at a time, Cloudgazer.”

“Well, I didn’t know we already had company,” the green dragonborn muttered.

“They’re just outside,” said Creon, “Should I tell ‘em to come around some other day?”

“Might as well. We’re kind of in the middle of something, Creon,” said Pequod.

Creon shrugged, before he turned to the door and opened it. All at once, as he turned the knob, the heavy door suddenly crashed open as the two bodies that had been leaning up against it tumbled inside. Still skittish, Argo stood to his feet, but the rest seemed unconcerned as the Tabaxi and Aaracokra fell in a pile of feathers and fur onto the carpeted floor of the lounge.

“Ouch! Watch your claws, Roses!” came the voice of the bird.

“You have claws as well, Baby Bird,” the cat answered, “If you were not so clumsy, we wouldn’t have…”

At this, the two siblings realized that they were being stared at by a room full of eclectic creatures, clearly adventurers, and they both knew in that moment they were making a bad first impression. Roses stood first with a smile and helped his sister to her feet, before he stood up straight and looked around the room. He was about to introduce himself, heedless to the looks of annoyance and confusion on the faces of the people he had not met yet, when he noticed a figure he recognized.

“Why, Argo, my friend!” cried Roses, and he rushed forward into the room, past Creon and Balthezar, and took the tortle by either side of the shell. Affectionately, as if he was the tortle’s oldest friend, he pushed his face in and seemed to kiss either side of the elderly tortle’s face in greeting, “It is good to see you again!”

“Roses. I thought you had work.”

“I do! And here I am!”

“You’re a part of Pequod’s outfit then?”

“He most certainly is not!” cried Pequod, “Cloudgazer, who are these people?”

“Er… uh… well, we may have invited a man to send his children to the residence for an… er… Their father was very sweet, and apparently, they’re quite skilled, and I thought it would be… I thought… er…”

“They want to join,” Creon said, bluntly, to take the heat off Balthezar, “We told them we’d ask you for an interview.”

“Join! We can hardly feed six members, let alone eight!” Pequod cried, frustration welling up in him as this meeting with Argo fell out of his control.

“It so happens we eat very little!” said Roses, turning towards the group, then, and taking each of them in with sharp eyes, “My name is Scent of Unnamed Roses, and this is my sister Antigone, we have been sent to…”

“Well, go back where you came from and stop bothering us!” Hotspur snapped, suddenly, the annoyance in her face plain. She was eager to hear what Argo had to say, “Or shall I have you escorted out?”

“P-please,” said Antigone, rushing up to her brother’s side. He bowed low and said, “I apologize for intruding like this, but we really do need the work. If you could see clear to taking us on…”

“Come. Back. Another. Day!” Pequod said, darkly, and everyone who knew him could see the cruel slant of his eyes and the twitch of his hand near his rapier, “We have business with Argo.”

Argo, while this all was going on, had regarded the scene with some trepidation. Roses was a stranger to him, of course, but at the same time, he was young and impetuous, and interested in the world and in magic. Those were all traits that the elderly tortle was quite enamored with. For that matter, even though Roses had tried to steal from him, he felt as if he knew the boy better than he knew anyone else in the room. He was a stranger here, just as they were, and he felt the need to band together with like people. Placing his drink down on an end table, before any violence could break out, Argo raised both arms and took the two younger adventurers by either shoulder, gently.

In a voice that was all smiles, Argo said, “I happen to be associated with these two, Pequod. If you wish to continue to negotiate the terms of this job, I require their presence. Otherwise I walk.”

The room fell silent. Antigone seemed confused that this tortle she had never met seemed to be vouching for her, but Roses, astonished, was all smiles.

“Of course, my friend Argo invited us here,” said Roses, lying easily.

“Roses?”

“Isn’t that right, Baby Bird?” demanded Roses, shooting her a brief, meaningful look.

“O-oh,” Antigone said, weakly, before she blinked her small, beady eyes and nodded, “Uh, yes. Father sent us to assist Mr… uh…”

“Argo, sister. You are so bad with names.”

“Mr. Argo, yes!”

With the lie in place, and Argo seeming to vouch for the two of them, Pequod stared hard at the trio. It was bullshit. He knew it was bullshit. Everyone in the room knew it was bullshit, but still, Argo seemed determined to include these two young greenhorns in the expedition and he knew just how desperate Pequod was for the kind of job that Argo was offering. Powerless to stop it, Pequod could only laugh.

“Well, then. I think it’s time for us to get started,” said Pequod, putting down his own drink, “Cloudgazer?”

“Y-yes?” asked Balthezar, still very confused, and growing more suspicious as he stared at the trio of strangers.

“Pop up a zone of truth, if you please,” he said, “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview.

It took a few minutes for the harpers, Pequod, Puck, Hotspur, Creon, and, finally, Balthezar, to finally settle themselves in the room, ready for the interview to begin. Argo, flanked by his two apparent responsibilities in Roses and Antigone, sat upon the fainting couch, finishing the last of his drink, while Roses and Antigone each nursed a glass of simple wine. Balthezar stood once everyone seemed settled, and, closing his eyes, gave a brief prayer.

“What God is this then?” asked Roses, curiosity in his voice as he stared at the holy symbol around Balthezar’s neck, an icon of a lit candle with an all-seeing eye in the bottom of the holder.

“Er…” said Balthezar, his concentration broken for a moment. He blinked his eyes, staring at the tabaxi, before he cleared his throat and explained, “Deneir, scribe of Oghma. If you please, I must concentrate for a moment.”

“Ah, of course, Friend Cloudgazer, I think I would like…”

“Roses,” said Argo, his voice holding a gentle warning in it, “hush.”

Roses fell silent then with an impish smile towards Argo, and Balthezar was finally able to get to work. He prayed for a moment, before he explained, “I will know if you resist the spell. Please answer truthfully. Let the truth be heard!”

With that, he threw up his hands and a divine glow fell over the three interviewees. All three could feel a tug at the backs of their minds. Argo and Antigone, having no reason to mistrust Balthezar, allowed the magic to force the truth from them. Roses, however, clenched his jaw as he felt the tug.

“Sir Tabaxi, I feel you struggling. It will be easier if you…”

“I apologize, but a magician never tells his secrets,” said the tabaxi, and he renewed his resistance against the spell. Balthezar furrowed his brow, confused by the cat’s defiant attitude, and raised a hand to put his full power behind the magic. Roses, eyes closed and jaw clenched, whined in discomfort as the spell took over him.

“They’re all affected,” said Balthezar, before he sat. Pequod and Creon both stood next, Pequod with his hand around a second whisky neat, and Creon with no drink and his meaty arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Alright then, I think I would like to hear exactly what you wish to tell us, Argo. You have a job for us, yes?” asked Pequod.

“I do.”

“Could you please show us the… incentive you showed me?”

Argo smiled and, happily, produced the diamond from his pouch. He held it up, and there was a collective intake of breath from the room as everyone reacted to it.

“Woah,” muttered Puck.

“I thought there was something worth protecting in that little bag!” said Roses with bright eyes, “No wonder you were so protective.”

“Alright, point taken,” said Creon, with a shrug, “We’re listening.”

“As it happens, my story is the truth,” said Argo, satisfied with himself, “As I told Pequod, on my island, there is an underwater cave, and within that cave lies the unclaimed treasure hoard of an ancient dragon.”

“A dragon?” exclaimed Balthezar.

“Is the dragon still there?” asked Pequod, narrowing his eyes.

Argo smiled, and answered, “The dragon was defeated. The treasure belongs to my people. However, there are still dangers which lie beneath the water, and that is why I seek to hire a crew of adventurers to aid me.”

“Where is your island?” asked Creon.

“Out in the middle of the Trackless sea, almost to Maztica.”

“Maztica!” cried Roses, his eyes brightening, “Such a faraway land! I did not realize you were from so far away, my friend.”

“Indeed,” said Argo, “In your tongue my island is known as the Mist Crescent. I am the elder there, a student of the stones, and I speak here on the behalf of my people.”

“Student of the stones?” asked Balthezar, curious at once, “Is that a druidic tradition?”

“No!” cried Roses, “Argo is a wizard! A wizard of uncommon strength! He inscribes his spells on little stones he keeps in a bag at his side.”

“H-he does?” Balthezar said, his own eyes brightening, “May I see?”

“There will be time for that later, Cloudgazer,” said Creon, gently, before he hardened his expression and asked, “So, dangers. What can we expect?”

“I don’t exactly know. I can tell you all about the native wildlife of course. Some of the local plants and animals can be rather dangerous, but this new threat is… something new.”

“Threat?” asked Creon, “An active threat or just a threat to whoever goes down into the cave?”

Argo paused then for just a moment. He played it off as if he was collecting his thoughts, but Creon, with his natural suspicion, narrowed his eyes.

“It threatens my whole island,” said Argo.

“Had to think about that for a second, huh?”

Argo stared into Creon’s face, his face falling slightly, but not completely. He renewed his pleasant smile a moment later as he shrugged his shell and tilted his head.

“I wanted to make sure what I said would be truthful before I said it.”

“Or make sure it’s technically true.”

“Creon? Got something?” asked Pequod.

“Nothing concrete,” Creon muttered, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head, continuing to study the tortle, “You were right. He’s definitely hiding something.”

“Hiding?” asked Argo.

“You’re a smart guy, Argo, I can tell. Probably smarter than most of us. You know exactly how a zone of truth works, don’t you?”

“I am familiar with the spell, yes.”

“So, you know you can get away with half-truths, lies of omission, and answering questions with evasive answers that are true in word only, right?”

Argo’s face had fallen by now into a frown. Of all of them, Creon had seen through him. Even so, he kept calm and said, “I’ve said nothing but the truth.”

“But not the whole truth,” snapped the silver dragonborn, stepping forward, “So, lightning round. Yes or no questions.”

“Alright.”

“Will we be in danger?”

The answer to that one was easy. No one doubted how dangerous it would be. Argo answered, “Yes.”

“Is there really treasure?”

“Yes.”

“Is the dragon really dead?”

Argo took a moment to answer this, thinking through his answer, and in an instant, Creon saw the tortle’s tell once again.

“Answer the question.”

“The dragon was…”

“I said yes or no!” snapped Creon, his voice turning nasty as he leaned down and laid a hand on the top of the tortle’s shell and thrust his snout close to the tortle’s, “You said the dragon was defeated. Funny choice of words. So, yes or no, is the dragon dead?”

“I…”

“Yes or no?”

Argo was caught. He had constructed his explanation so expertly and thought about this scenario many times on the way there. Now, here he was, thwarted by something as simple as being forced to answer yes or no on such a simple question.

“Dead…?” he said, before he sighed, and answered, “No.”

Pequod gave a low whistle, cocking his brow, before he continued Creon’s line of questioning. He realized at once what Creon had done. Argo was smart. He would have an answer to anything that at least sounded like the truth. Boiling things down to yes or no made everything much simpler. One can’t think their way out of simple.

“So, yes or no, are the cat and bird really with you?”

Argo, sighed, rolling his eyes, and looked from Roses to Antigone with a wistful expression, before finally saying, “No. I met Roses just today, and I quite like him, however. I wanted to give him an opportunity.”

“On our time, huh?”

“In so many words, I suppose so.”

At this, Antigone squeaked slightly, opening her beak, seeming about to say something. When all eyes turned towards her, she flinched back and, with widening eyes, looked away and began to fret her hands together.

“Er… Sir… uh… Sir Cloudgazer invited us here,” said Antigone, “We meant what we said. We’re more powerful than we look.”

“Okay, what kind of power?” asked Pequod, humoring the bird.

“I was part of a druidic circle which shepherds the beasts of the land and air.”

“And what are you doing in Waterdeep?”

Antigone blinked her eyes, breaking eye contact with the tortle with the piercing gaze and fidgeting her wings slightly. Finally, she answered, “I, um, I was exiled, alright? And Father… Roses’ father took me in. That’s all.”

“And you?” asked Pequod, jerking his head towards Roses, “What’s your schtick?”

“It is better if I show you!” Roses said with a wide smile, before he reached his hands into his pockets and packs and began to pull out various objects with theatrical flair. One by one, he produced as if by magic a holy symbol of Deneir, a little blue pin with a harp icon on it, a signet ring with an eagle prominently displayed in the heraldry, and then, from behind the couch, an unsheathed short sword. One by one, the owner of each object, as soon as they saw it was in Roses’ possession, reached up to where it should have been – Balthezar cried out as he discovered his missing holy symbol, Pequod regarded his missing harper pin with a pointed amusement, Puck’s missing shortsword was discovered with a mute surprise, and finally, Hotspur stood, rage on her face, as she looked down and regarded the bare finger of her hand.

“You little sneak!” she cried.

“You may have all of these back, of course. I simply wanted to impress you!” said Roses, “And of course to see your faces when you discovered them missing. It was quite amusing, indeed.”

“Impressive,” said Pequod, snatching his pin back and tilting his head from side to side, inspecting it. He couldn’t help but smile, the bard recognizing at once a fellow scoundrel in their midst. “You didn’t steal anything from Creon, did you?”

“Of course not!” said Roses, very seriously, “His eyes are too sharp. He might have seen.”

“And smart, too. Knows enough not to get in over his head,” said Pequod, his annoyance fully giving way to acceptance of these two strangers.

“If it helps, there will be a sizable payday in it for all of you. Even if the young ones only came on this one mission with you, their cut of the treasure would certainly not break you,” said Argo.

“Hmmph. That is, if we agree to go on this wild goose chase in the first place,” Creon muttered, taking Balthezar’s holy symbol and Puck’s sword and passing them back to their rightful owners.

“If?”

Hotspur snatched the ring back from Roses with a nasty look before she said, “If the dragon is still alive, that means we’ll have to fight it, right?”

“No!” screamed Argo all of a sudden, standing up and causing the whole room to be on edge. Argo realized a moment later that he had momentarily lost control of himself, before he forced himself to sit back down quickly, formulating another response. “I mean… the dragon isn’t your enemy. I was telling the truth that the dragon was defeated.”

“Trapped then?” asked Creon.

Argo considered the answer, before he said, “Yes.”

“So, you’re playing up the treasure and playing down the danger. Understandable. I didn’t think you had it in you, old timer. Tortles aren’t usually so duplicitous outside of me,” said Pequod.

“Perhaps tortles of Chult are not the same as the tortles of the Mist Crescent,” said Argo, “In any case, I believe this interview has gone on long enough. I have need of a crew of strong adventurers to help me. If you will not agree to it, I must take my request elsewhere.”

“Not so fast, Argo,” Pequod said, with a look towards the other members of his party. He was smiling, almost smug, and Hotspur rolled her eyes, “I think you’re exactly who we’ve been looking for. And your little buddies here as well.”

“The kids, Pequod?” demanded Hotspur.

“If they’re as powerful as they say, they’ll survive. If not, they’ll die.”

“Or get one of us killed.”

“Eh,” Pequod shrugged his shell, tilting his head towards Balthezar, “We’ll just pack some diamonds. Might not even need much with that rock in Argo’s bag.”

It was Balthezar’s turn to be annoyed as he said, “Please, Pequod, don’t take death so lightly. Even if I can do something about it…”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cloudgazer!” Pequod said, his voice cheery and bright all of a sudden as he clapped the dragonborn on the shoulder, “Gods know that nobody else in this room is.”

“O-oh…”

Hotspur, with her arms crossed, started at Pequod, and then towards Creon. She gave him a hard look, and he noticed and looked back. She jerked her head silently towards the tortle wizard, quizzically and Creon, after a moment’s thought, nodded his head slowly. She then turned to stare at Balthezar.

“How about you? Trust them?”

“I… I see no reason not to,” said Balthezar, “W-well… except for the lies of omission, I suppose but… Mr. Argo, yes?”

At this, Balthezar stood intending to have a question of his own answered. Argo looked up at the green dragonborn, relieved that the question would be coming from one of the less intense members of the group.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Are you in trouble, somehow?” asked Balthezar, concern on his face, “I understand if you don’t want to answer, but… you seem… worried.”

The last thing Argo expected at this point, after everything, was kindness, and it must have shown on his face, for Balthezar’s eyes widened, and he clenched his jaw, but silently waited for the tortle’s answer. Slowly, Argo’s eyes slid off of the cleric’s face, and met each of his prospective employee’s eyes one by one. He was silent for a long time, until he felt a gentle hand enter his. He blinked his eyes and turned to see that Scent of Unnamed Roses, a sly confidence on his face, had taken his claw in his own, and, once he was looking, nodded his head, encouraging the tortle. Argo couldn’t help but smile at this simple gesture and looked back towards Balthezar.

“I am,” said Argo, quietly, “Or, rather, my people are. I don’t even know what happened or what did it but… something was happening when I left, something I can’t explain. Something… evil.”

“Evil…”

“People disappearing,” said Argo, “Growing mysteriously sick, or acting oddly. Monsters rising up out of the sea. I left just as things were taking a turn for the worst. I can’t imagine what things are like now. That was… over a month ago.”

“Gosh,” muttered Balthezar, reaching forward at once to lay a gentle hand on Argo’s shoulder, “I understand. You didn’t trust anyone would help you unless there was a reward in it for us.”

“Well, as a matter of fact…” muttered Pequod, but he was interrupted when a stiff arm pushed into his shell, and he stumbled. A nasty look ran between him and Creon, but he fell silent.

Argo laughed, “You’ll get the reward we promised, Pequod, don’t worry about that.”

“Assuming the dragon lets us walk away with our share,” Hotspur said, before she smiled brightly, her eyes widening, “But of course, we’ve fought dragons before.”

“I would rather you wouldn’t,” Argo said, sternly, his claw squeezing the tabaxi’s hand, “Mother is very important to us all. If she died it would be a disaster.”

“Did you just say… Mother?” asked Puck, slowly, as he looked up at Argo in confusion.

The silence was palpable, as Argo realized that he had let just a little too much slip. He pulled his hand away from Roses with a kindly smile, before he breathed in and gave a deep sigh. He then walked out of the radius of the zone of truth, walking across the room until he felt the effects of the spell fade away, silently indicating that he was finished with conversation.

“If you will help me,” he said, turning back towards the gathered adventurers, of whom he now counted himself a member, “I have a ship moored in the dock. I need a crew. Have you ever sailed before?”

“I’m good in the water!” cried Puck, “Never been in charge of a boat before, but me and Dungeness can help.”

“Indeed. I did some sailing to reach the Sword Coast before father took me in,” said Antigone, before adding, with a bashful look, “Not that I… really knew what I was doing.”

“I imagine the cat and I have the most experience, yes? Maybe Creon too,” said Pequod, bending his neck to regard the stern dragonborn, “All those skirmishes with Unther, surely they sent you out on boats sometimes.”

“Lance Defenders fly, Pequod. We don’t swim,” muttered Creon, “But I’ve sailed.”

“I can learn,” said Hotspur, eager already to start the adventure, “We all can. How hard could it be?”

“I don’t think you want the answer to that question,” muttered Balthezar.

“What was that, Cloudgazer?”

“Nothing!” he answered quickly, with a laugh, “In any case, uh, I think we had better prepare for a long journey then. When do we leave?”

“As soon as we can, I insist!” Argo said.

“Tomorrow!” cried Pequod, “And if you’ve got somewhere better to be? Well, don’t bother showing up. This is what we’ve been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. This is not a drill.”

“Right!” cried Puck, excited, before he rushed up and pat the tortle wizard on the shell, “Good to meet you, Argo! I think we’re gonna be good friends.”

“Indeed,” said Argo, looking down at the kobold with a quizzical expression. He turned his head from side to side, as if taking in exactly what kind of creature this tiny rust-colored reptile was, but eventually he smiled and reached down to shake the little thing’s hand. “In any case, I must go find a place to stay for the night.”

“My friend Argo! You must stay with us!” exclaimed Roses before his sister could speak up.

“Roses…” muttered the Aaracokra.

“He has helped us Baby Bird. We should help him in kind. We will bring him to the bar. We have rooms upstairs.”

“For rent, Roses.”

“Who rents from us? Who is renting our rooms? Show this person to me, they must be invisible.”

“People might rent if the bar was busier.”

“And I am making our bar busy! A compromise,” said Roses, before he walked up to Argo and threw a friendly arm around his shell, “My friend Argo, I regret to inform you that you must still pay for drinks, but the room will be free.”

“Roses!” cried Antigone, but her brother was already leading Argo out of the Eagleshield’s parlor.

Soon, only the Harpers were left, seeming to buzz with a certain familiar energy. They could nearly taste the start of something grand and exciting on the tips of their tongues. It was a promising start. Riches, excitement, and heroism stood before them, and one by one, without any words necessary, each member of the band gave themselves over to the promise of Argo the Tortle. Balthezar threw his arms around Creon and vice versa, Hotspur sat back down in her chair, content with her drink, and Puck climbed up onto Pequod’s shell to get a better vantage point to watch the visitors leave. Pequod himself, however, never took his eyes off the other tortle. His smile was slightly different. It wasn’t filled with hope, like the others. No, he knew there was danger ahead of them, unknown danger, and did not doubt at all that Argo was still hiding things from them. He would have it no other way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team prepares to begin a long journey by sea.

Puck’s sleeping schedule had been ruined by constantly running around with the bigs. He tossed and turned through the evening as he laid out on his bedroll, trying to drown out the sounds of constant commerce and excitement going on around him. He spent the night in his brother’s warren – a dockside warehouse that the kobolds of Waterdeep had turned into a ramshackle city within a city. He knew it would be the last time he saw his family for a while, and so he wanted to say goodbye first thing in the morning. As it was most times he tried to sleep through the night in the warren, though, this was a mistake. The nocturnal creatures conducted most of their business between the hours of seven to six, and while Puck tried to drown out the sounds of an entire miniature city’s worth of high-pitched voices, it was too herculean of a task. Eventually, he gave up, resolving himself to nap later, on the ship.

He slept in a little corrugated tin hut with a bedroll in it, with his giant crab Dungeness curled up in a large pan in the corner filled with fresh ocean water. Dungeness had very little trouble sleeping, and so when Puck stood, he didn’t take the time to pat the larger creature on the shell, and instead, with his eyes burning from exhaustion, he stumbled out of the hut to behold the nightlife of his brother’s warren.

Since they had begun this warren, things had changed greatly. Puck’s brother Ssylo was a ruthless, charismatic individual, and even before they came to own this warehouse, they had set up a robust society here. Since they had come into possession of the deed, they had since hollowed out the structure, leaving only a wide space in the center and the scaffolding up above, and had built a tiny model village out of scrap wood and metal, with residences ringing the outside walls, and a tiny market square dominating the center with tents set up and carpets laid out over the ground. During the day, it was deathly quiet as the creatures slept away the sun, but at night it was packed wall to wall with little draconic creatures crying out at each other, meeting, hugging, jabbering on about their days, and shopping for things they needed.

Puck smiled as he watched this throng of kobold-kind buzz, but he couldn’t help but sigh. He had come to realize some time ago that he was growing apart from his people. He had an important job – he was a hero in the outside. A member of the harpers, a friend to the big people. Ssylo called him an ambassador to Waterdeep once, and Puck made fun of him for being so arrogant as to think that their little warren in the middle of the Dock Ward was its own country. Now that he had spent some time in both worlds, perhaps Ssylo wasn’t so off-base.

Aimlessly, Puck began to wander. There were perhaps three hours until sun-up and probably a couple more hours until everyone showed up at the dock to climb aboard Argo’s ship and sail away. Puck wanted to spend time here to remind himself what he was fighting for, but ever since arriving, he had felt more alien than ever. He had arrived far too early for any of his friends to be awake, and by the time they were all awake, he had already gone to bed.

Puck soon found himself climbing the rickety stairs up into the upper scaffolding which hung above the warren. He wanted to see his brother’s family. He wanted to feel less like a stranger in his own home. Knocking on the door to the upper-tier office built into the warehouse, he took off the little soft cap he tended to wear and plastered a smile on his long draconic snout.

The door soon opened, and Puck saw one of Ssylo’s mates, Aki, who smiled as she saw Puck standing in front of the door. Immediately, without a word, she rushed forward and threw her arms around Puck in a hug.

“Hi, brother!” cried Aki, speaking in high-pitched, pidgin Draconic, “Come in! Hey Boss! Puck’s here!”

Puck stepped inside, and saw that within, Ssylo was sitting on his comically large bed, which took up most of the room with its bulk. He was surrounded by papers and files, and as he looked up at Puck, he gave a curt nod before going back to his work.

To the untrained eye, Ssylo might have seemed to be simply albino, with his nearly pink eyes and shock-white scales. He wore fancy clothes – silk was a favorite of his, and he was wearing one of his puffy shirts at that moment, with his trousers cut and fit to his tiny frame. Puck was very much used to his brother’s vanity, as well as his brother’s ego, and he loved him despite it.

“Uncle!” cried another, tinier voice as, from underneath the bed, another kobold came crawling out. This one was quite a bit shorter than anyone else in the room, and the pattern of his scales was striped in white and green, and with bright red eyes he gazed up at Puck before launching himself forward and hugging his uncle tight.

“Poki!” cried Puck, picking up the small kobold and spinning him around. Most of the kobolds were often in awe of Puck’s grand strength for a kobold, even though he wasn’t anything special in the outside world, “How’s my favorite nephew?”

“I shot a rat with that bow you got me!” screamed the younger kobold, smiling wide, “Papa Poe is off getting it cooked so we can eat it!”

“You shot something? Amazing!” Puck spoke back, carrying the light kobold over to one side of the room and setting him on top of a writing desk so that his legs dangled down off the side, “Did your papa Ssylo appreciate you bringing home the bacon?”

“Papa Ssylo would have appreciated if you had managed to use that cantrip I taught you instead,” muttered Ssylo from the bed.

“Frozen rat no good though!” cried Poki, whining, “It’s better fresh!”

“The kid’s got a point,” said Puck, looking over at his brother with a smug expression.

At this point, Aki walked up to Puck and offered him a large glass of deep red wine. Puck took it with a smile and dipped his snout into it, taking a drink, before he came up for air and savored the taste. He then walked over to the bed and leaned against the side of it, smiling up at Ssylo.

“Something important?” asked Puck, regarding the papers surrounding Ssylo.

“Yeah,” answered the white Kobold, “We’re legit now… kinda. Did you know that people gotta pay taxes on property? You can’t just own a place. You gotta keep paying for it after you own it, especially if people live there.”

“They ain’t cheating you, are they?”

“Hard to tell,” was the answer as Ssylo picked up a ledger book and began to flip through it, checking a figure. He sighed, and nodded, before snapping the book shut and falling backwards onto the bed. “That’s it for now. That’s about all I can stand. Aki! Wine?”

“Coming right up, Boss!” she said with a smile, as she rushed back over to the drinks cabinet and began to pour.

“Thanks for coming, Puck,” said Ssylo, lying as still as he could, “I needed the distraction.”

“Anytime. I should be asleep.”

“It’s like one in the morning! The middle of the day!”

“I know, I know,” Puck muttered, hugging his glass of wine to his chest, “But I got a late day tomorrow. Starting a long voyage. I’ll sleep on the ship.”

“Ship? Where are you going?” asked his brother, furrowing his scaly brow.

“A treasure hunt. If you need some help with the finances, I might be able to donate my cut. We’re expecting a pretty big payout.”

Ssylo frowned, then, rolling over onto his stomach. Wordlessly he held out a hand and Aki filled it with a drink.

“Hey, Aki, take the kid and go see what Poe’s doing, okay?” asked Ssylo, “Gimme some time with Puck.”

“Okay!” cried Aki, before she rushed over and helped Poki down off the desk. With one last wave towards Puck, Poki was led out of the room, and Puck couldn’t help but wave back with a smile.

“He gets cuter every day.”

“They grow up fast. Literally. I didn’t realize how fast kids grow up. Learns fast too.”

“He could shoot a bow about five days after he hatched, you don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Oh yeah?” Ssylo cried, as if he was challenged, “Well, I got him throwing around prestidigitation on day three, so there!”

Puck laughed at Ssylo’s confrontational posturing, and he sank down to the floor, sitting with his back against the bed frame. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking.

“Ssylo,” asked Puck, “You were always different.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I… I’ve been starting to feel different too.”

“You’re hanging around too much with the big people is what you’re doing,” insisted Ssylo, before he took a demure sip of his wine, “I’ve got the blood of dragons running through my veins. You ain’t got no excuse.”

“Maybe not, but I’m doing good work out there. Saving people. Helping out. Making friends. I’m a city boy now. Just think, this time a couple years ago we were covered in mud and wandering through the woods on the run from the cult and now? You’re on top of the world…”

“On top of a debt-trap, you mean.”

“… And I’m an adventurer. One of those wild people that appears whenever problems need solving.”

“And if kobolds ever need killing, I’ll know who to call.”

“You know I wouldn’t turn on our own like that!” cried Puck, looking up at his brother, “I’m still part of this warren!”

“I know you are, I’m just teasing,” said Ssylo with a laugh, “The bigs are making you sensitive too.”

“It’s hard not to be. Everything they say means something. It’s hard not to offend anyone, even if you think you’re friends.”

“So, what’s the point of this conversation? You ain’t quitting, are you?”

“No! Never! I wanna do this forever!” cried Puck, before he fell silent and dipped his snout into his wine once again to lap up some more. Ssylo allowed him a moment to think, and eventually Puck managed to say, “I’m just worried I’m growing apart from everyone here. Hotspur, and Pequod, and Caliban, and Cloudgazer, and even the new guy Snout, they’re all great, and I’m proud to call them pack. Every time I come here, there’s new hatchlings I don’t recognize, and I feel like I’m getting… pushed out.”

“Never! As long as I’m in charge you’ll always have a home here, Puck!” cried Ssylo, sitting up and leaning over the bed so that he could look down at his brother, “I owe you my life! We’re in this together!”

“It ain’t up to you completely, you know. You got people here to take care of. If they don’t know me, I’m eventually gonna be a stranger to everybody but you, Aki, and Poe.”

Ssylo frowned at this and thought for a moment, before he said, “And Poki.”

At the mention of Ssylo’s young son, Puck couldn’t help but smile, even as he said, “If I stay away too long you’ll ruin him teaching him too magic.”

“Hmmph! Like that’d be a bad thing! He’s my son after all.”

Ssylo peeked once again at Puck and noticed all of a sudden the sour mood Puck seemed to be in. He realized in that moment that he may have said the wrong thing and cleared his throat, took a drink and began again.

“Of course, we let him practice with his weapons. Poe and Aki both appreciate him bringing home extra food.”

“You do too, don’t lie.”

Ssylo said nothing more on the subject. He merely cleared his throat and went on, “Anyway, hey, when you get back, how about you help me with something?”

“You? You need help?”

“Yeah, I mean… A little, maybe. Nothing pressing, just… I’ve been having some… trouble with the guilds."

"Guilds… You ain’t getting involved with anything shady are you?”

“We were always involved, Puck, but… things may have taken a turn recently. You’re good at hunting things.”

“You want me to kill someone?”

“Something,” muttered Ssylo, “You know what a Beholder is?”

Puck’s eyes shot open then, and he couldn’t help but stand up and turn to stare at Ssylo. Puck knew enough about the underworld of Waterdeep to understand what his brother was talking about.

“You can’t mean…”

“I mean… it was just a little loan, Puck. Nothing a little arranged accident can’t fix.”

“You want me to kill the…!” began Puck, before he stopped himself, knowing even saying the name out loud might invite the wrath of people they don’t want to hear them, “You took out a loan with the black network?”

“I had to. Owning a building like this? Feeding the warren? It’s expensive, Puck!”

“But still, the Xanathar guild?”

Ssylo had no answer, he just smiled, shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of wine. Puck’s eyes were wide, all thoughts of sleep leaving him as he felt a rush of adrenaline wake him up. His brother was in deep trouble, he knew. The Xanathar guild was the most ruthless gang in the city, and their leader was a megalomaniac, and a literal monster besides. Puck thought long and hard before he answered his brother, taking a long drink of his wine, before he shook his head and walked over to the desk, placing the glass down on it.

“You ain’t leaving are you?”

“No. Just ain’t thirsty anymore,” said Puck, as he began to pace the room, “An Aberration, right? I can work with this.”

“You… you’ll do it?”

“I’ll try. Even my gang ain’t good enough to fight that yet but… after this next job? I think we might be ready.”

“If it’s too dangerous, you know I can…”

“You’re out of practice, Ssylo. I can’t let you help me,” snapped Puck, “Let me protect you, like I always did. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll kill whoever you want me to kill.”

“Really…?”

“Within reason!” Puck cried out suddenly, furrowing his brow, “Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed you went behind my back to take out a loan with the worst sharks in the city!”

“I thought I could handle them!”

“Of course you did!”

At that, Puck breathed in deep and walked up to the bed, before climbing up and giving Ssylo a big, close hug. Ssylo was surprised by this sudden affection and held his wine glass away from the embrace so it didn’t spill. Puck soon pulled away and looked deep into his brother’s eyes.

“Don’t get yourself killed before I get back, okay?” said Puck, tenderly, “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“I do, you’d murder your way across this city until you were holding the head of whoever did it, right?”

Puck blinked his eyes, before he smiled a little and said, “How’d you know?”

“Because, dumbass!” Ssylo answered, pulling away from the hug and holding his wine close, “I’d do the same for you.”

\--

As morning came, Argo awoke early, as the first hint of sun peeked through the shutters of the little room he had been given in the attic of Trollskull Manor. He had not slept on the bed, as the mattress seemed less-than ideal for the shape of his body, and instead he had arranged the blankets in the corner across from the chamberpot into a little nest, which he curled up in, drawing his head, arms, and legs safe into his shell. He was used to waking up early, although it seemed that morning had come even earlier than his body was used to – a side-effect of how far he had traveled from his homeland, he was sure. With a quiet yawn, he stretched his neck out of his shell to take in his surroundings, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He was hungry and he was eager for some good greens to break his fast.

His arms and legs extended out next, and with a little grunt of effort from the elderly tortle, he managed to right himself and climb to his feet. Next, he found his robe, laid out over the now bare mattress and wrapped it around his shell. By habit, he tied it closed and hung his bag of spell stones to the rope, and soon meandered out of his room and downstairs.

As he entered the barroom of Trollskull Manor, Argo looked around and was disappointed that he did not see either Roses or the other tabaxi who had introduced himself as the father of his new, young friends. Instead, he saw Antigone sitting at one of the tables, with a book in one talon and a pen in her other.

“Good morning,” Argo said, gently, but even with his low, calm voice, Antigone still jumped.

“O-oh!” she chirped, closing the book and standing up, “Mr. Argo. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” said Argo, “Is there a corner where I might study my stones over breakfast?”

“Breakfast! Yes!” she said, her beady eyes brightening as she realized she still had a job to do, and she all but glided across the room and indicated a table off to one side, “Father insisted we get some reinforced chairs for heavier patrons… er… not that you’re… I mean…”

“I appreciate the consideration,” said Argo with a smile and a laugh. He walked over to the table she had indicated and saw at once the extra steel reinforcement in the chairs. It would do. He soon sat and placed his bag of stones on the table.

Antigone wasted no more time as the tortle began to sort through the collection of flat, smooth stones he kept within his bag. She soon reemerged with a plate of fresh vegetables and put them down in front of the tortle, who accepted them with a wordless smile. She then stood by, feeling awkward, and watched as Argo took each stone one by one, read the strange draconic runes and either placed them back into his bag or sorted them out into a little pile to be prepared later.

“Fascinating method,” said Antigone, quietly, interested, but shy.

“I had no idea my way was so uncommon before I left,” said Argo, as he squinted his eyes to read one of the smaller runes upon a larger stone, “I’ve only known two methods of magic in my life. Druidcraft was one, the stones was the other.”

“You knew druids?”

“One,” Argo answered, “Not part of a formal circle as you know it, I don’t think, but she is powerful. We respect her, stay out of her way, and she protects the natural ground. When it is her time she will choose someone to take her place, and train them in her ways. It is likely she will not need to do this for some time. She was a very old woman even when I was a hatchling and doesn’t seem to age as the years go by.”

“Yes! A powerful practitioner in tune with nature ages like a tree. That’s how my… my father explained it.”

The slight hesitation in Antigone’s words were not lost on Argo, and he immediately knew that Antigone was not referring to the kindly older tabaxi who had been his host the evening before. A ghost hung over the conversation, and Argo knew better than to disturb the dead.

“Indeed,” he said, simply, “Sit, please. You are making me nervous.”

“What? O-oh! I’m so sorry!” she cried, sitting at once across from him and watching as he sorted through his stones, “I’m just watching. Please pay me no mind.”

“I learned this magic from the elder before me,” explained Argo, knowing without asking that she was curious, “She was powerful in her own right, but our knowledge back home was limited. I’ve added much to the collected knowledge of my island even in the short time I’ve been out in the world. It’s been illuminating.”

“Why stones? Don’t wizards usually need paper?”

Argo laughed, “I wondered the same thing. Why paper? It’s so fragile. Etched stones are harder to work, but they last longer without as much upkeep. Of course, not as portable, but that’s where the bag comes in.”

“The bag? Is it magic?”

“Lightly magical, yes. A little abjuration to keep everything… contained and protected. Even if I’m very powerful and hold an entire library of spells with me, the stones inside will stay sealed away and safe from the ravages of time and handling.”

“Fascinating!” said Antigone, before she reached forward towards the pile of stones. She realized what she had been about to do a moment later and flinched back, before she looked up at the tortle and asked, “May I?”

“You and your brother are so interested in magic,” Argo teased with a smile, before he nodded and went on, “Go ahead, just be careful.”

“Oh! Of course!” she chirped, before carefully picking up one of the stones and inspected the runes on it. It wasn’t truly language as she knew it, although the runes were clearly draconic in nature, and she knew that it was likely a symbolic equation of some sort which would, if she had the ability to decipher it, allow her to cast a spell. Squinting her eyes, she tried to decipher the runes and what they might have meant.

“You mentioned abjuration before,” she said, finally, tilting her head, “Is it your specialty?”

“I suppose so. It is what I was taught. I didn’t even have names for the spell schools before I left the island. There was just our magic – what you know as abjuration – and the magic of the outside. My elder taught me this so I could protect my island, like a shell.”

“I recognize a Shield spell when I see one, but it’s very well-loved,” she said, running a claw over the worn iconography, “It’s a common spell for most wizards, but very well-worn for you.”

“Ah! Is that where it went?” asked Argo, looking up and seeing the stone for his shield spell in Antigone’s claws, “Yes, indeed. Manipulating protective magic is something I do very well. Please?”

“Of course!” she answered, hanging the stone back.

That appeared to be the final spell stone Agro needed, and the rest were swept back into his bag. He soon got to work, starting with the shield spell, studying the text, turning the stones over in his hands, one-by-one, as he memorized the forms and equations found there.

“The runes are draconic, yes, but not all of them map to language,” he said, making conversation, “Some of the shapes of the runes represent the shapes of somatic movements needed to cast the spell.”

“Oh!”

“And of course, there’s a bit of plain language in there as well. Magic words to pull a strand from the weave. I’m sure you know the process well, being a practitioner of magic yourself.”

“I suppose, although my magic is borrowed,” she said, “And… I’ve not met with my circle for some time.”

“Is that important?”

Antigone paused, her beak clenched shut. She shook out her grey and red wings, before she answered, “Maybe.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve had to teach myself since… since my real father died. And anyway, I’m not welcome back at my circle, so there’s little to be done.”

“Not welcome. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine,” Argo said, slowly, looking up from a larger stone in his claws with sudden concern, “Exile?”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t part of the circle anyhow. My father… well… we were on our own, and then he died, and then I… Well… Now I’m here! That’s all.”

Argo stared at the stammering young Aaracokra for a moment, tilting his head, and showing open concern on his face, and Antigone, her embarrassment rising, stood.

“A-anyway. I’ll let you get back to your studies,” she chirped, quickly, “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“If you would like to talk about it,” Argo began, “I don’t mind.”

“Talk…?”

“Unless you can speak with your father and brother about it. I don’t mean to pry, but… well, call it a sixth sense of mine. I’ve had to steward an entire island for some time. Many people grieve, sometimes for longer than most people think is necessary, but we all must take the time we need. If you aren’t done with your time, you don’t need to pretend.”

“Aaracokra don’t have time to grieve,” Antigone said, matter-of-factly, before she turned back to the table with the book on it and sat back down, “I’ve some books to balance, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. I see Red Sky’s finances are in good hands.”

“Ugh! I wish I could hire someone to do this for us.”

“I have a good head for figures. Perhaps I could take a look once I’m finished studying.”

“N-no! You’re our guest here, Mr. Argo. I couldn’t ask you to…”

“Some guest. I’m not even paying my own way,” said the tortle as he raised a spell stone to the light and squinted at a few curves of his runes, “It would be the least I could do.”

“W-well…”

Before she could answer, Argo placed the last of his stones into the bag and, with his preparations complete, he stood and began to drag the heavy chair across the room to where Antigone was sitting. He sat once again with a smile and looked over her shoulder at the open ledger book. Immediately he smiled and tapped a claw on the paper.

“I see an error already. Do you mind?”

“O-oh! Of course not!” she said, hurriedly handing him a pen and offering the inkwell to him. He dipped the pen into the ink with practiced ease and began to cross out a part of a figure, and wrote in a correction, before running a clawtip across the whole of the page and writing in all of the changed sums from the simple error he had found. Antigone blinked her eyes at how quickly the tortle’s mind moved to help her.

“That should do it!” said Argo, far sooner than Antigone would have been able to finish, “No use leaving your father with uncooked books, eh? I can see already why you need a share of Mother’s treasure.”

“Th-thank you.”

“No, I should thank you,” he answered, “You and your brother are going to help me. I’m eternally grateful for it.”

“I-I hope we can.”

He nodded, saying simply, “I hope so too.”

A moment passed between the tortle and the bird then, as she looked down at the completed ledger and seemed to smile in an oddly bird-like way, not showing it on her face, but cooing and visibly relaxing more than Argo had ever seen her relax before. Argo, for his part, seemed to look upon her with paternal care as he saw this relaxation come over her and, without really meaning to, gave her a gentle touch on the shoulder before standing up once again.

“Shall we find your brother? I think it’s about time for us to depart. Pequod is liable to leave without us if we’re late.”

“He’s not going to be happy being awakened so soon. Neither he nor father are morning people.”

“Well, that’s tough,” said Argo, walking back towards the access to the inn rooms upstairs, “Roses should have thought of that before he tried to steal from me and made me like him so much.”

\--

Pequod stared up at Argo’s modest sailing ship. It was a fine enough vessel, he figured. Not the best, by any stretch of the imagination, but for a journey across the sea, he was sure it would be good enough. Argo had made it here on this tub, so surely it would be able to make the trip again.

He had arrived early and was enjoying the cool morning air on his face and the smell of the sea in his nostrils. The sounds of Waterdeep’s dock ward just beginning to awaken pleased the tortle, and he looked around with some amusement, seeing sailors and dockhands go about their morning routine. In a matter of hours the real diehard fishermen who awoke before dawn to catch fish in the quietest hours of the morning would sail into port and the whole ward would be alive with the smell of fresh fish and the sound of merchants crying out for a good deal fresh from the boats.

 _Suckers, the lot of them,_ he thought, with a smile as he turned back to the boat. If he was back home, he would be one of those fishermen, most likely, pulling a canoe into a tiny dock just off of Ahoyhoy on the Snout of Omgar, giving thanks to nature for her bounty, and then cleaning the fish and sending it off to be distributed through the town. Then he would go home, sleep for an hour, and then wake up in the late morning to have proper breakfast and go back out to socialize with the old-timers – maybe he would be an old-timer himself at that point. Why not? It was his nightmare, wasn’t it? Might as well revel in the worst it could be. Old, decrepit, sitting in a rocking chair surrounded by little kids with more promise than him, who would all dream of wandering but shackle themselves to the southern peninsula of Chult eventually one way or another. He had escaped all that, and he was eager to thank the nearest God who could hear for it.

“You’re up early,” Pequod heard from behind him, and he turned to see Creon approaching, a heavy pack on his back and a second one held effortlessly in his good arm. Upon seeing the Dragonborn, Pequod smiled.

“Nostalgic,” said Pequod, looking past Creon and seeing no one else, “I don’t see Cloudgazer with you.”

“Cloudgazer’s picking up some last-minute supplies. Magic stuff.”

“Oh, I see.”

Creon walked past Pequod then and stood, staring up at the boat with sharp eyes. He squinted, making the scars on his face crease.

“You sure about this, Pequod?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked the tortle.

“We both know he’s still hiding something.”

“I know. That’s why I’m so eager to go.”

Creon turned to stare at the tortle. He didn’t say a word, and Pequod had learned that when Creon didn’t say anything, it was usually when he meant the most.

“I’m just saying, I’ve never met a tortle like Argo,” said Pequod, “Sure, he’s like the old timers you would meet if you went to the Snout of Omgar, but… different. He’s smart, and wily.”

“Like you?”

“Hah! Not nearly as good a liar as I am.”

“Right,” Creon muttered, “So the rest of us are just supposed to go along with this because you like him?”

“Well, also because I know the group can handle it, and because we need the…”

“Pequod, can I ask you something?” Creon said, suddenly, cutting off Pequod mid-sentence.

With a clatter of supplies inside both bags, Creon let the two packs drop to the ground with a grunt, and turned towards Pequod, his face serious and hard. Pequod kept up a friendly facade, but he knew that Creon recognized it as his poker face. The silver dragonborn was too good at picking up his tells.

“Anything for a teammate I suppose.”

Creon paused, taking in the tortle, and the battle of wits began. Pequod’s deceptive nature vs. Creon’s sharp eyes.

“I heard about what happened to you. I think I’ve got a little bit of the story. Hotspur doesn’t wanna talk about it and Cloudgazer doesn’t know the whole thing. Puck and Caliban don’t mind not knowing, so they never asked.”

“What happened to me? What ever do you mean?”

“How and why you left Chult,” said Creon, bluntly, “I got part of the story, but not the whole thing.”

“Well, buy me a drink sometime and I’m happy to…”

However, before Pequod could finish brushing him off, Creon stepped in, coming snout-to-snout with the tortle and looming over him. Pequod was momentarily spooked but knew a bluff when he saw one. If it came down to a swordfight, the former soldier had the clear advantage, but if he could open up the distance and start casting, Pequod would be able to finish it quickly.

“I’m probably the one of all of us who would understand the best,” said Creon, finally, an uncharacteristically gentle tone to his voice, “If you were exiled, or kicked out, or whatever happened.”

“Hah. Leave the psychoanalysis to Cloudgazer, Snout,” muttered Pequod, stepping backwards. However, he was stopped by a strong hand resting itself on his shoulder, not gripping him hard, but making his immense strength known.

_Gods, you never know with bards what they’ll be good at…_

Creon shook his head, “Cloudgazer don’t know how to talk about this. Maybe he can help, but not if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe he’s on to something there.”

“Yeah, maybe. Tough. I’m nosy,” Creon barked, “So? What happened?”

Pequod stayed silent, staring into the face of the dragonborn. He didn’t even try to hide his disdain for the Thymari in that moment, but Creon didn’t mind one bit. Eventually, Pequod turned his face to look away, clenching his jaw, and thought hard about something to say. Creon wasn’t going to get off his shell until he said something, clearly.

“Let’s just say my mentor invited me to come explore the Sword Coast with him.”

“Before or after they kicked you out?”

“Who ever said I was kicked out?”

“You sure act like an exile. The sour grapes act whenever anyone brings up Chult is a dead giveaway.”

“Act? You insult me, Snout.”

“Get off it! I’m just callin’ you a liar. Ain’t that a compliment for the like of you?” Creon asked, just the hint of a joke in his deadpan.

Pequod did not laugh, and instead looked around for anyone else in their party who might have shown up. Surely Balthezar at least should have been there already.

“So?” Creon continued to pry, “Your mentor, huh? That who you learned magic from?”

“Speaking as a fellow bard,” Pequod jabbed with a smile, enjoying the flinch coming over the dragonborn’s frown, “I’m sure you know how these things are passed on.”

“I ain’t a…”

“He was a talented musician! A piper of grand renown, leading all sorts of proteges to their demise, myself included. Only a few of us were good enough to get to the inner circle of the man’s teachings, and in the meantime? Well…”

“Yeah?”

Pequod turned back fully towards Creon and it was his turn to step forward and force the other bard onto the back foot. They were both equal in the realm of Intimidation, at least.

“I got in trouble with the law trying to follow my new teach’s instruction. Some things were stolen. Some people ended up dead. I was not invited back to the Snout of Omgar from then on. Good riddance,” explained Pequod with an evil smile, “Still think you and I have something in common? Forgive me if I’m wrong but annoying your dad by sleeping around with the boys in basic training probably isn’t quite the same thing.”

“I know we’re both far away from home,” Creon said, his voice darkening, “And I know that Cloudgazer wants what’s best for everyone. Holding stuff in…”

“You said it yourself, Snout, I’m a liar!” said Pequod with some finality, shrugging Creon’s hand away and walking off. Creon didn’t stop him. “What’s a liar without a few secrets?”

“This adventure business won’t last forever,” the dragonborn said, “What happens when the adventure is over? Where’ll you go? Tortles go home to Chult when they’re done in the outside world. What are you going to do?”

“None of your godsdamn business, Snout,” Pequod muttered, his own voice matching Creon’s in a dangerous tone, “I’ll go to hell before I go back to Chult.”

“The rest of us? We’re making plans. You have to realize that,” Creon persisted, “We all got futures in front of us, y’know? You’ve pinned your everything on keeping the dance going forever. You took this job because it keeps us from thinking about what we got to look forward to and keeps you from thinking about what’ll happen to you if the work ever dried up for good.”

“So? If you don’t want to come, stay in Waterdeep. See if I care. I never asked Cloudgazer to invite you along,” snapped Pequod, “We only need one bard anyway.”

“I ain’t a bard!”

“Something wrong with bards?” Pequod asked with mock anger, comfortable now that the spotlight was off of him.

“I was a soldier of Djerad Thymar, I was trained by the Lance Defenders, I was a military musician.”

“You spent some time in the circus. You learned how to juggle.”

“That was training!” Creon insisted, “I don’t wander around pranking people or screwing anything that moves…”

“Whatever you say, Big Top,” Pequod taunted with a giggle, “I’m sure Cloudgazer and Caliban would say otherwise. Possibly both at the same time. From what I hear through the walls on lonely nights you’re pretty good at that.”

Creon’s eyes went wide in sudden anger, and the snarl on his face made it clear that Pequod had hit exactly the nerve he wanted to hit. The silver dragonborn seemed just about to turn violent, but he calmed himself down a moment later, forcing his snarl to settle. He shook his head and looked away. Pequod took the opportunity to walk away, looking out over the waves.

“You’re going to have to confront it eventually,” Creon said, finally, picking up the two packs and pushing past Pequod onto the ship.

Pequod would have answered, had a voice from further down the docks not interrupted his thought. The high squeak of a kobold crying out alerted him to the presence of Puck, and he soon turned to see the rust-colored creature riding up on the back of that big crab of his. With him was Balthezar, holding a leather satchel filled with magical ingredients. Both of them had smiles on their faces as they conversed with one another.

“Ah, there you two are,” said Pequod.

“Good morning,” said Balthezar, “I apologize for taking so long. I had to pick up some last minute…”

“Supplies, yeah,” muttered Pequod, “Creon told me.”

“Oh! Yes. Where is Creon? Aboard the ship already?”

“Yup,” Pequod said, before he gave a sly smile, “I think that Roses kid was getting a little friendly with him, y’know. You better get up there quick. He’s good at hiding.”

“H-huh? That’s silly, Creon wouldn’t…” said Balthezar, before he blinked and thought back to how he himself had had a wandering eye with the Tabaxi in Trollskull Manor. Surely Creon wouldn’t… “Er… excuse me.”

With that, Balthezar rushed away. Pequod couldn’t help but smile as the dragonborn left to chase after Creon. His enjoyment was cut short, however, when he heard a throat clearing and he turned to see Puck, arms crossed.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying to do,” said Puck, “You don’t like Creon.”

“I admit, he isn’t my favorite, but a harmless prank won’t hurt anybody.”

“It’ll hurt Cloudgazer. Watch yourself,” Puck snapped, before he urged his giant crab on, staring at Pequod as he passed by and then up onto the ship.

Pequod watched the kobold climb up onto the ship, his face carefully pleasant. When the small creature was out of sight, he let the mask fall. Nobody around here had a sense of humor anymore. Creon’s words echoed in his mind. Even Puck had something to look forward to, a whole warren full of kobolds who regarded him as a hero, and a nephew who looked up to him. He refused to admit that Creon had any kind of a point, but he recognized, at least, that there was a gnawing doubt at the back of his mind. Jokes on them. If there was anything Pequod was good at it was in squashing doubts.

“Hey, shellback, heads up.”

The voice of Hotspur came on suddenly, and Pequod was nearly caught off guard when a pack was tossed towards him. He managed to catch it, looking down at the brown leather backpack, and looked up to see Hotspur with a cocked eyebrow. She was dressed for travel, not in her usual scuffed armor, but instead in simple traveler’s clothes with trousers, hobnail boots, and a jacket over a fitted tunic. Her hair was unbraided for once, as she let it hang down her back like a black wave.

“Hotspur,” said Pequod, with a nod, “What’s this?”

“Navigator’s tools, a spyglass, cartographer’s kit, paper, ink…”

“And what am I supposed to do with them?”

Hotspur shrugged, and said, “You’re good at improvising on the fly. You and Creon both. You’ll figure something out.”

With that, the half-orc shouldered her own pack and walked up the plank towards the ship. However, before she disappeared up onto the deck, Pequod couldn’t stop himself from crying up at her.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly, his jaw clenched. She turned to stare at him, blinking her eyes.

“What?”

Pequod was silent for just a moment, before he breathed in and asked, “Am I trying too hard?”

There was a moment of perfect stillness between the two friends, before Hotspur, without a word, walked back down the plank and stood before Pequod. She stared at him, trying to understand what he was talking about, and furrowed her brow.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“Nowhere. I just know things have been tense lately, and…”

“You always try too hard,” she said, finally, “Always have, ever since we met.”

Pequod allowed himself to show his annoyance, and the sight of it made Hotspur smile.

“I…”

“Oh sure, you pride yourself on being hard to read, but it doesn’t take much to figure out that you’re always lying a little bit. I’d call that trying too hard,” she explained, reaching forward to give him a playful jab in the arm, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You know I took this job for the good of the group, right?”

Hotspur blinked hard, before she frowned and tilted her head.

“It’s a job. A good job. An exciting job. We’re a team, Pequod. We all took the job because we wanted to. You didn’t make us do anything.”

“I know, I just…”

“Is this self-doubt?” asked Hotspur, her face splitting into a smile. When Pequod crossed his arms and grimaced at her, she laughed once, hard, “It is! Someone got into your head. _Yours!_ Oh, this is rich.”

“I should have known better to think I could talk about this with you.”

“Hey! I’m just happy to see you’re fallible like the rest of us mere mortals,” she said, “So? You going to explain what’s got you so bothered?”

“No.”

“That’s fine. Didn’t want to know anyway.”

With that, she picked her pack up and turned to walk up onto the ship. She waved her hand without looking back, and Pequod stared at her leave. However, he couldn’t help but launch one last jab up at her.

“Thanks for the pep talk!” he cried, mockingly.

“Not my job to shovel through your bullshit, Pequod. If you want to talk, talk, don’t make me sniff around for what you’re really after.”

And with that, she walked onto the deck and out of sight.

Pequod swore lightly under his breath. Why did he think he could talk to Hotspur about this of all people? She wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t. Nevermind that she was his oldest friend in the outside world he was still on speaking terms with. She was better friends with Balthezar and Caliban than she was with him at this point, and yet…

“Pequod, good morning.”

_Ah, good. Another distraction,_ he thought, as he turned to face Argo.

“Good morning, Argo!” he cried in a jolly voice as he beheld the tortle flanked by an eager Antigone and the tabaxi, Scent of Unnamed Roses, who seemed bleary-eyed and irritable so early in the morning.

“What is so good about it?” Roses muttered. Antigone gave him a hard look, but Argo merely smiled.

“Are we nearly ready to depart? It will be a long journey. At least a month.”

“My crew is packed in. I see yours is… ready.”

He beheld the lack of any kind of supplies hanging from Roses’ back with no small amount of skepticism. Dead weight would be dead weight, and he still did not fully trust this odd ‘Brother and sister’ duo. The only thing he carried was a colorful satchel at his side.

“You are staring, Pequod, sir,” said Roses, his sharp eyes still catching the tortle’s stares, even if they were half closed from exhaustion.

“You do know this is a month-long journey, yes? Surely Argo told you.”

“Indeed. I have everything I need right here!” he cried, before he opened his satchel and reached down inside. He reached, and reached, and was soon bent all the way over, his arms disappearing into the impossible space inside of the bag. He then straightened out and withdrew a wide-brimmed black felt hat, which he placed on his head. He struck a little pose and gave a toothy grin. “Fetching, yes? It will keep the sun out of my eyes.”

“Alright, alright, point taken,” Pequod muttered, jerking his thumb towards the ship, “Good to know we got a bag of holding in the group now, at least.”

With a deep, self-serving bow, Roses walked on past Pequod, adjusting his hat with clear vanity. As he passed the tortle, he let his tail brush past the tortle’s shell, but when Pequod tried to snatch it, the tabaxi was already out of his reach and up the gangplank. Antigone soon followed.

“Um… sorry about Roses, he just…” she began as she began to pass by.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve met his like before,” said Pequod, “I know how to deal with him.”

She wasn’t sure if she liked that much either, but she said nothing more as she, too, bowed politely and took to the air rather than climb up the gangplank. She soared up, unfurling her wide wings, and immediately began to explore the upper rigging of the ship. Pequod watched her go, and Argo walked up to stand next to him, leaning heavily on his quarterstaff.

“You see why I like them so much, I hope,” said Argo, “They’re interesting.”

“I don’t know if I’d call ‘interesting’ the right word…”

“They grow on you, let’s just say,” Argo continued, before he turned to face the other tortle and said, “I must thank you for this, Pequod. I never thought I would meet a kinsman out here, let alone one with the strength to help me.”

“I’m in it for the gold, old timer, not the companionship. Keep this strictly business.”

“Of course. I hope my island will be the equal to your own homeland.”

“Hah. Hope not,” Pequod snapped, “Else we’ll all be bored our of our skulls.”

“Well, you may be sure there will be some surprises.”

With that, Argo broke from the conversation and, with one last smile towards his new tortle friend, walked up the gangplank, leaning heavily on his staff for support. Pequod watched him go, marveling at how much Argo reminded him of all the people he hated back home, and yet how ready he seemed to help him despite this.

“Homesick…? Bah!” he muttered to the air. Nevermind that nobody at all had brought up homesickness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins, and each member of the party finds their own way to pass the time.

For a tabaxi, it was important to find fascination in life. They are encouraged and driven to find something which brings them joy – A collection, or topic, or activity – Something to obsess over and devote all of their love and talent into. Sailing had never really been a fascination for Scent of Unnamed Roses in that way. He had other things to fixate on. Magic was an obvious favorite of his, as was performance. Combining the two had been a personal mission of his, and when he had discovered his talent for sleight of hand, it had become even simpler to trick people into thinking that he was a greater magician than he truly was. Tabaxi of Chult did not often have opportunities to study a school of magic in the way he would have liked, with a spellbook and all. The life of a wizard was what he truly dreamed of and pretending to live that life – with an increase in spangles and sparkles of course – was what he had become good at projecting.

Despite this, Roses found that as he sat up in the high lookout of Argo’s ship, sunning himself in the spring air, he remembered that sailing was pleasant as well. The sight of the gentle curve of the horizon gave him pause, and the clouds drifting past made him smile. The air was fresh, and the rocking of the waves put him at peace, and he imagined that in another life, if he had stayed a pathetic urchin thief in Port Nyazaru, and if his father hadn’t scooped him up out of that life to pursue the life of an adventurer, he might have liked to end up a sailor.

With one more deep breath, he raised his arms with a smile as if beginning to conduct a symphony. With a wiggle of his ear and a stretch of his fingers, there between his hand he had created a tiny blue pearl of energy, translucent in the sunlight. This time a year before he wouldn’t have been able to manage a magical effect even this small, and the sight of the prestidigitation gave him pleasure. He waved his hands again, morphing the energy in his hands into a harmless jolt of arcing electricity, and in his other hand created a little illusory cloud above it. He then raised his hands up to the air and closed one eye, placing the stormy cloud into the sky and, finally, purring as loud as he could, simulating the rumble of far off thunder.

His ear twitched soon after, and his dove familiar gave a bright coo, and with a wave of his hands, the magic was interrupted. He sat up and turned his head to see that Antigone was approaching on the wing. Her clothes were soaking wet, but she didn’t seem to mind much.

“Ah. Baby Bird. Taking a bath, were we?” he said, standing up and leaning over the railing of the look-out post.

The Aaracokra chirped, clearly annoyed at the remark, but she flew up above his head and began to perch on the tip of the top mast, letting her clothes drip down into the crow’s nest as she preened herself, bending her neck down to nip at her pinfeathers and make sure they were all in place. With water dripping down on him, Roses hissed, and retreated from the mast, but the small crow’s nest did not allow him much room to escape.

“Hey!”

Antigone gave a few calm chirps, and seemed self-satisfied, and Roses, despite the chills that ran up his tail and spine every time one of those cold drops landed on his fur, smiled up at her.

“Sorry,” she said, finally, in a tone of voice which let her brother know exactly how not sorry she was, “I was conversing with some locals.”

“Locals? Speaking to fish? Any good conversation?”

“Dolphins are very smart. Playful too. Had a grand time,” she said, excited, and she clapped her talons together, “You should come some time.”

“I think my place is up here but thank you.”

After a moment of blank looks, Antigone finally realized what she had said and gave a soft peep. She then abandoned her perch above Roses and flew down to his level, before spreading her wings to dry in the sun.

“I forget sometimes,” she muttered, “Not everyone can just… talk to animals.”

“As father says, it is a gift.”

“It doesn’t feel like one. Talking didn’t help…” she began, but soon closed her eyes and changed the subject, “Anyway, how has the trip been for you?”

Roses stared at her for a moment, his face carefully blank. He closed his eyes, slowly, and opened them again as he thought, before smiling and shrugging his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said. A simpler answer than she expected from her brother. However, he went on soon after, “You do not have to suffer so much to hide things from me, you know. I know what happened.”

“I know. Still… It hurts to talk about.”

“Things that hurt, they hurt for reasons, yes. Pain is sometimes something to embrace,” said the tabaxi, as he reached into his sequined jacket and withdrew a piece of paper, “I found this in my luggage.”

“Hm?”

She turned to face her brother and found a lengthy letter held in Roses’ claw. His expression was strange. She had never seen him looking so dour, and her nerves began to flare up immediately. She snatched the letter from him and began to read.

“This is… from father?” she asked.

“Yes. It seems this last adventure was part of his plan.”

Antigone didn’t like the sound of that, but she began to read anyway. Her posture slumped and her wings began to fold and droop as she read, and as she came to the end of the paper, she was mute with apparent grief.

“He… he left us,” Antigone whispered, her eyes wide.

“Afraid so,” said Roses, “A tabaxi goodbye. You are truly one of us now, Baby Bird.”

“But… why?”

Roses shrugged. “I always knew it would happen this way. It happened this way for my real parents as well, although I was too young then to really understand. I am simply happy father… I am happy that Red Sky at Night kept us for so long.”

“He just left?”

“He set us free,” explained Roses, “It means he thinks we are ready. That is the way of our people. We are independent. We prefer the family we find to the family we are given.”

“But he found us! He took us in! We were going to open Trollskull Manor together.”

“Ah, that reminds me as well!” said Roses, reaching into another pocket and withdrawing a stiff sheet of paper. He unfolded it and Antigone immediately recognized it by the notary seal pressed into one corner.

“The deed…” she muttered, “Oh no.”

“It appears that it is yours now, Baby Bird,” he said, offering the deed to Trollskull Manor to the Aaracokra. She hesitated, and finally spoke.

“I… I can’t take that.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I mean… I’m wet,” she said raising her arms and letting him see the drops of water still flowing from her robe, “It will get ruined.”

“Ah! I see, well, then I will keep it for you for now. I’ll place it with your other things.”

“B-but… I can’t accept this! Things were good. Surely he…”

“Things change, Baby Bird. He was never going to settle down with you in your quaint little Inn,” said Roses, trying his best to sound kind as he tucked the folded-up deed back into his ornate jacket, “Hah! But perhaps Baby Bird is incorrect. You are no longer a chick. What should I call you now?”

“My name is Antigone, you know this.”

“Yes, but you are family to tabaxi now, and you now know exactly what that means,” he said, taking the letter from her and waving it in the air, “A life of wandering. You have a chance now to choose who you would like to be. Such choices are not pleasant. I have had to make this choice two times now. I believe you have as well.”

“Yes…”

“So, with this choice comes the best part!” he said, genuinely cheerful, and Antigone was astonished that Roses was recovering so well, “A name! You do not have to be Antigone any longer, and no longer must you be Baby Bird. You may choose who you are.”

Antigone looked away from her brother then, staring out over the water, and then down at the letter in her hand. She thought long and hard about what Roses was saying. It was true, after a fashion, but even so, it seemed so alien to her.

“I have very little time on this world, Roses. I can’t just reinvent myself every time something big happens like you can.”

“If you become powerful enough, you will age like a tree, as you told us.”

“That… that requires… facing up to my past. Facing my former circle. Atoning for my father’s sins. I can’t do that if I cast off my identity and just become someone new.”

“Ah, but that is just it!” He cried, drawing close and snatching her talon up in his paw, “You are not becoming someone new. You are becoming who you were always meant to be.”

“So… you have done this once before?”

“It took me a long time to figure it out,” he explained, “My parents could not keep me as long as they would have liked. Life in Port Nyazaru was expensive and hard for our kind. They were merchants, but no one bought from us. So, to save money, they let me go.”

“Just… just like that, huh?”

“Just like that,” he said, “I was a little urchin thief for several years. Some years I had no name. Some years I hated my parents. Some years I missed them. I realized many things about myself which later crystallized into the beautiful creature you see before me.”

“Who were you befo…”

“Ah-ah-ah! That person is gone now, it is impolite to ask,” he said with a smile, “The person you see, a Tabaxi, a magician, an entertainer, a man, a son, and a brother. That is who you know. That is… was Scent of Unnamed Roses.”

“Was…? You’re going to change again?”

“Well, I am going to remain a man at least! No need to go through that again. I still have a love of magic and I enjoy seeing people smile,” Roses muttered with a thoughtful nod, before he leaned over the railing and scratched under his chin, “But I am no longer a son. That has ended. Not much else must change, I think.”

“You can still be my brother, even if father…”

Roses turned his head to regard his sister, his smile widening even more.

“And I may still be your brother? Yes. I like this.”

“What about your name?”

“I will think about it! A momentous occasion may require a new name, but not necessarily. This name means a lot to me. It is the one I chose for myself, after all.”

“I see,” the Aaracokra said, reaching up to rest a hand under her beak, deep in thought, “I didn’t choose either of my names. Maybe you have a point.”

“Yes! See? You understand.”

“But…!” Antigone said, calmly, “I think I’ll stay who I am.”

“Oh?”

The tabaxi was silent after that, waiting for his sister to gather her thoughts. Antigone stared at the page in her talons, then, and folded it neatly up to keep for later. Visibly relaxing, she nodded her head and folded her wings behind her back.

“Antigone is the name my father gave me. It is the name that connects me to my Circle. I’m not ready to cut myself off fully from my past. I must go back eventually, even if it is… unpleasant.”

“Ah, I see.”

“And… Baby Bird is… well…”

“You are not a baby anymore. You grew up very fast.”

“My people don’t have a long time. We make the most of it that we can.”

“So! What should I call you instead, then? Antigone is the name your father gave you, but I never called you that. Baby Bird is the name _our_ father gave you when he was still our father.”

“Hmmmm… I don’t know…”

“Shall I choose then?”

“Is that allowed?”

“Oh yes! And it is not binding at all. You may change it at any time or refuse whatever name I give. To a tabaxi, a name is personal, important, and sacred. As far as I am concerned, you are simply a rare winged tabaxi!”

Antigone thought for a long time as she regarded her brother’s impish little smile. His whiskers were twitching with anticipation and he flicked one of his stiff, triangular ears. It would be dangerous to let Roses name her, even if it was just a private name the two of them had between them. Even so, she realized, she trusted her brother, for better or for worse. This connection was one more gift father had given her. Unlike Roses, she couldn’t stop thinking of Red Sky at Night as her father, and therefore, she had to use everything he had given her. That is how she could grow and change.

“Name me,” she said, bracing her talons on the railing as she looked up into the sky. She closed her eyes and felt the wind for a moment, waiting for the tabaxi to finish thinking on it.

“Hmmmm,” he began, “Red Sky thought you were ready to go out into the world. We must trust this. Even so, you are certainly not at the end of your journey. You were a baby bird, but now you have grown, and have already faced too many hardships for one so young.”

“Yes?”

“I think you will be named,” began Roses, as he reached forward and adjusted the front of her damp robe, where he could see that peek of red feathers underneath. “Robin in Winter.”

“Robin…?” she muttered, “A little…”

“On the nose, yes?” he said, quickly, enjoying the little joke, “It is true, yes, but that is not the important part. You are a bird in winter, unsure of your survival, but sure to do it with a little effort. You are Winter now, but in time, you will be Spring, and then Summer, and, eventually, if you are unlucky, Fall. If you are lucky, and you grow powerful enough, perhaps you will be Summer forever – or at least as long as I live, should you outlive me. You are a druid. Surely you appreciate the seasons.”

“I respect the seasons. They mean a great deal to the beasts of the land and sky.”

“And to you as well,” Roses said, brushing off the front of her robe and making sure it was closed. He then flicked the water off of his paws and offered one of them forward to his sister with a smile, “It is a pleasure to meet you, sister Winter. For now my name is Scent of Unnamed Roses.”

Antigone stared at the paw of her brother for a moment, a certain melancholy coming over her. It really was the end of an era, but also it was the start of something else. Something new. As brother and sister they had warred and quarreled, but now that they were both free, it was as if a change had come over Roses all at once. Being taken care of by a tabaxi for some time allowed Antigone to realize how mercurial their people could be, and she knew better than to fault them for it. Roses had already moved on. The sight of that paw gave her strength somehow, and she offered her own talon and chirped.

“It’s nice to meet you all over again,” she said, before she jerked hard on the tabaxi’s arm and, before he could realize what she was doing, threw her arms and wings around him in a tender – but still soaking wet – embrace.

Roses screeched, an ugly noise that hurt Antigone’s ears, but she didn’t let go until she had smeared the salt water all over the front of his sequined jacket. When he finally managed to push her away, he looked down at the dark stain on the front of his clothes where the water had moistened him, and his tail and the back of his neck had exploded out into a black brush of fur.

“You…! This Jacket is one of my favorites!” he screeched out, working to rub the water out of his clothes before the salt could do it any harm.

However, she was already laughing as she took to the wing and began to fly away from the crow’s nest. Roses cried out the nastiest profanity he could at her – in her own language no less – and she just laughed and laughed, a warm, chirrup of joy that faded into the bright sky as the druid retreated from the angry tabaxi.

\--

For Balthezar, who had never in his life sailed before, his feelings were complicated. On one hand, he enjoyed the work – physical labor was novel to him, and his natural dragonborn strength was put to good use working together with Hotspur and Creon to hoist sails and lift barrels, even if he wasn’t quite as strong as his other two companions. On the other hand, he had never been so sick in his life.

It started well enough. The first couple of days were punctuated by bouts of queasiness as they traveled along the easily traversed trade routes of the Sea of Swords. It was difficult to know when exactly it happened, but by day three, the water seemed to grow more violent, and he found himself down for the count with a persistent sickness which had not abated by day four.

Stomach empty, dizzy, and feeling more exhausted than he had ever felt before, Balthezar Cloudgazer lay, down for the count, on a cot in the corner of the small room he and Creon had claimed. Creon had not been with him much – it turned out that between him, Puck, and Pequod, they represented the sum total of the practical sailing knowledge of the Harpers, and the rest of them were just following orders. Balthezar wished that Caliban had agreed to come. The comfort of the affectionate lizard would have been a welcome distraction.

As he lay, waiting for death and praying to Deneir to help him though this ordeal, the door to his room opened. He turned his head, blinking hard through his bleary vision, and at first, saw nothing. Knowing what that meant, he turned his head further and soon saw his visitor.

“Hello Puck,” moaned Balthezar as Puck stood at the end of his cot, his nose barely rising up over the sheet, “What can I – urb – do for you?”

“Still sick, huh?” asked Puck. His voice was soft and sad, and he wasted no time in climbing up onto the bed, sitting on his knees next to Balthezar’s face and holding up a little leather satchel, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

“Huh?”

“Old remedy! I thought somebody would get sick, so I decided to take some along!” said Puck, withdrawing a small paring knife and a brown, stringy root. As he spoke, he began to peel the root, revealing the white flesh beneath, and cut a slice from it. “So, all you gotta do is put this under your tongue and give it a suck, okay? You’ll feel better.”

“What… what is it?” he asked, “I don’t know if I can eat anything right now.”

“No, no! You don’t have to eat it. I mean, it’s delicious, but you gotta cook it down first,” explained Puck, “But… well, just trust me, okay?”

“O-oh,” muttered Balthezar, who was in no position to argue, “Alright.”

With that, he reached up to take the little slice of root from the kobold and stared at it. He gave it a sniff. It had a heady, strong aroma and as he smelled it, he could feel his sinuses clear and his eyes water. However, he did trust Puck, and so he placed the root beneath his tongue and began to suck. Immediately, he regretted this. From nearly the moment the root touched his mouth, his nose began to run, his eyes began to water, and though he tried to suck, he found that he could not. He coughed hard, sitting up suddenly, and spat the little disc of white root out of his mouth.

“Horseradish!” cried Balthezar, “What are you trying to do to me?”

“Aw, come on! You gotta keep it under there until you feel better.”

“Oh Gods, my snout…” cried Balthezar, holding his hand up to the tip of his snout, which was running freely, “What was that supposed to do? There’s absolutely no medicinal benefit to sucking on raw horseradish!”

“Well, do you feel sick now?” asked Puck.

Balthezar was about to cry out yes, but soon took stock of his stomach. He was wide awake now, so the fatigue was lessened, his dizziness was gone, and, astonishingly, the queasiness was gone, as if he had forgotten all about it.

“Er… I do feel a little better,” said Balthezar, holding his belly, “It distracted me, I suppose.”

“Told you!” cried the Kobold, replacing the horseradish root in his satchel. He then withdrew a different item, a book, and held it up, “Since you’re feeling better, I thought I might ask you something.”

“Huh? Oh,” Balthezar muttered, as he sat up straighter and leaned back against the wall the bed was pushed up against, “Alright. What are you working on?”

“I wanna learn about these,” said Puck, offering the book forward, “I took this book out of the Library.”

“You… you left Waterdeep with a library book? You know you have to return that, right?” said Balthezar, before he looked down at the book in his hands. To his horror, it was a fine tome, and he ran his fingers along the spine, recognizing the make of it. “W-which library is this from?”

“The Library of Deneir.”

“Puck!” cried Balthezar, hugging the book to his chest protectively, “You can’t just take a book from the Library of Deneir! It’s not a lending library! It’s an archive!”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is… oh, Deneir save us all. How did you even get in?”

“I dropped your name and they said it was okay, and I just kinda walked out with it,” said Puck, seeming more and more puzzled, “Did I do something wrong?”

Balthezar was ready to continue chewing the Kobold out but stopped himself. He breathed in and then out in a long sigh. At the very least, now that he was aware of it, he could return it once they got home. He finally looked down and saw what book Puck was so interested in and saw on the cover an embossed impression of a many-eyed creature with a large eye in the center of its round, orb-like body. Furrowing his horned brow, Balthezar read the title on the spine.

“I know this book. ‘Otherworldly Threats?’ You’re studying aberrations?”

“Uh, yeah!” said Puck as he nestled in close to Balthezar and stared at the cover, “The librarians said this was the one I wanted to study if I wanted to know as much as I could.”

“It’s a very dense text,” admitted Balthezar, before he cracked open the book carefully and began to peruse it. He admired for a moment with some pride how well taken care of the tome was, before he took in the page he had turned to. There was an illustration there of a tall, gangly figure with tentacles hanging from its face. In the anatomical drawing, it wore no clothes, and its ribcage was visible underneath its slime-textured skin. A mindflayer, Balthezar knew, and the sight of it made him uncomfortable. “What brought on the sudden urge to learn?”

“Er… Well…” Puck began, searching for the words to say, “I mean, I know all sorts about tracking humans, and that’s real useful in cities, but I figured it would be good to… diversify.”

“But why Aberrations? We’ve never encountered any…”

“I mean, they’re scary! I’ve been flipping through this book and there’s all sorts of gross things they can do! Mind control! Eating brains! There’s a whole species of monster in there that lays eggs in you and if they don’t kill you, the baby busts out of your chest a few days later!”

“Gosh…”

“So I figure this is a good idea, y’know? We’re bound to encounter some of these suckers eventually. I don’t want to be unprepared when we do.”

“I see. I suppose. I would have expected you to study dragons, honestly, considering your background, and who we’ve tended to fight.”

“Well…” Puck muttered, obviously searching for a counter to Balthezar’s point. When he couldn’t come up with anything, he just shrugged.

Balthezar stared at Puck, then, squinting his eyes. Puck was no kind of liar – he and Balthezar had that in common. Their faces were both too honest to truly hold any deception. The green dragonborn knew immediately that the kobold had an ulterior motive for this, one that must have been important to him. Something had happened just before they left Waterdeep, and Puck wanted to be ready for it when they returned. At the same time, the kobold was afraid.

“Did something happen with the warren, Puck?”

“Huh?” Puck grunted, before he raised his hands and waved off Balthezar’s concerns, “No! No of course not!”

“You know we’ll help you. If there’s something…”

“This is kobold business, Cloudgazer!” Puck snapped, suddenly, “I… I need to do this, okay? Will you help me or not?”

Balthezar drew back from Puck’s sudden, nasty tone, but he knew better than to be afraid or angry. Instead, he looked down at the book in his hands, before he straightened his back and closed it.

“You said it yourself, Puck. We’re pack. Up until now that has meant you protect us, but… it goes both ways, doesn’t it?”

“Cloudgazer…”

“I won’t ask what it is. I suspect you’re hiding it because you don’t want it spreading around. Your home is in trouble, so obviously I’m going to help you. I have no other choice. You’re my friend.”

And then Balthezar smiled down at the kobold, and Puck, astonished at the answer, couldn’t help but smile back, laughing lightly. He had been silly to try to keep something like this from Balthezar.

“Sorry. You’re right,” said Puck.

“So, let’s begin,” began Balthezar, opening the book to the first few pages, “Alphabetically, first type of Aberration we have is…”

However, before Balthezar could read the words off of the page, his vision grew bleary once again. He felt all at once the motion of the ocean and blinked his eyes as his seasickness began to return in full force. He closed the book, realizing that focusing on the words was exasperating things, and he closed his eyes and began to breathe.

“I think… I need another piece of horseradish if I’m to do this… possibly a glass of water and… a bucket.”

“Are you okay, Cloudgazer?” asked Puck, blinking his eyes as he looked up at the green dragonborn.

“No,” he muttered, “But… helping you is more important than a little sickness.”

With that, Puck nodded his head and rushed from the room to fetch a bucket and to find another surefire seasickness cure. Balthezar waited for the kobold to return, running a finger over the embossed Beholder on the leather cover of the tome. He squinted his eyes, wondering what the danger to Puck’s warren could be. Whatever it was, he swore, then and there, to help to burn it out of Waterdeep for threatening his people like this.

\--

Several nights later night, Balthezar stood out on the topdeck. He hadn’t been able to sleep most nights from seasickness, and tonight was no exception, so, instead, he stared out onto the horizon, where the outline on the end of the world was lit up by the meager light of the full moon. He felt somewhat exposed, and knew there was likely danger out here, but still, he needed the fresh air.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he turned his face up to the sight of the full moon. It was so big out here in the middle of the sea, and the stars encrusting the sky were so beautiful. It reminded him of evenings camping out in the wilderness, except the sky simply seemed to stretch forever without end. His gaze soon shifted, almost without him meaning to, from the moon to the sky itself. He found himself, oddly, staring into the spaces between the stars, and he reached up to adjust his glasses as he squinted his eyes. He realized he was searching for something, and the queasiness in his stomach was giving way to something else. He realized that there was a low dread coming over him, tightening his chest and causing his draconic jaw to clench, and the deeper he stared into the ever-expanding blackness above, the more he felt it intensify.

“Deneir… S-Scribe of Oghma…” he muttered, invoking the name of his God, “What is this?”

All of a sudden, his eyes went wide, and all of the stars, one by one, went out like candles in the wind. Balthezar’s breathing quickened and he tried to step away from the edge of the ship but found he couldn’t move his feet. He looked down and saw, instead of the moon-drenched deck of the ship, he saw a deep, ever-expanding blackness beneath him. He breathed in deeply to scream as he felt himself begin to fall but found he could not. He was underwater, drowning, and his hands clutched at his face and neck in fear.

He sank down, deeper and deeper, trying to scream but unable as his eyes darted around, trying to find their way through the darkness. The moon itself had winked away and he was trapped in a cold, deep void where nothing could penetrate.

He tried to think his way through it. This couldn’t possibly be real. He prayed once again, begging for a candle in the dark to guide him away from this place, and, as if in answer to his prayer, he heard a woman’s voice chanting something in a language he did not recognize. He heard the prayers intensify, and soon, saw something begin to emerge.

It was truly massive, a gray-black blob moving through the water like a drop of ink. In one moment, Balthezar felt as if that immense presence was surrounding him completely, and in the next moment, it seemed to disappear, gone, but only physically. A pressure all around him pushed down on his chest and neck, and he breathed out, feeling bubbles of air leave his snout. His lungs began to burn. He was drowning, but that did not frighten him nearly as much as whatever horror was lurking in the dark.

There was one last moment of terrible stillness, almost as if Balthezar was approaching the very bottom of the sea, where creatures dwelt that no one had ever encountered before. He still could not move. He couldn’t even hear his own breath or heartbeat. Only silence answered back to his fear. And then there was deep, sinister laughter.

Finally, teeth in the darkness lunged for him.

\--

“Oh gods! Please!” screamed Balthezar as he awoke, ragged breath drawing in, filling his burning lungs with life-giving air. His eyes were wide, and the world was a dark blur. He realized he could feel hands in the darkness touching him on the chest and face, and he reached up to force them off him. When he felt scales, and realized their gentle touch, he allowed himself to relax. The dread did not, however, subside.

“Cloudgazer,” a comforting voice whispered, “Cloudgazer, wake up!”

“C-Creon…”

“Gods, you’ve been having a nightmare.”

Balthezar pushed himself into a sitting position and threw his arms around the comforting bulk of the silver dragonborn. Tears were forming in his eyes and his breathing grew harder and faster. He then began to cough, feeling the burn in his lungs still.

“P-please… Turn… turn on a light?”

Creon wasted no time. In a tender whisper, Balthezar heard the comforting sound of a spell, and soon, the chamber was lit up by a soft, bright light. Balthezar squinted at the sudden brightness, but he stared directly at it. As his eyes adjusted, he took in his lover. Creon was wearing no nightshirt, revealing the barrel chest and sturdy stomach cultivated by years of hard work and training. He had laid down next to Balthezar still wearing his filthy, rumpled trousers, which annoyed the green dragonborn, but he found he didn’t care. He realized as his eyes continued to adjust that Creon had lit up one of his long, swept-back horns, giving the dragonborn a halo, like some sort of celestial host. Balthezar breathed in deeply and raggedly one last time, taking comfort from this, and he settled into his lover’s tender embrace.

“A bad dream?” asked Creon, his face tender and worried, a rare expression which few got to see outside of private, intimate moments between Creon, Caliban, and Balthezar.

“Y-yes. It was… I…”

However, he stopped talking as the burn in his lungs seemed to intensify, and soon he began to cough once again. He pulled away from Creon, turning away as he wheezed, feeling pain in his ribs with each hack, and he felt something wet and salty leave his lungs. He turned away from the cot he and Creon shared, aiming for the bucket Puck had gotten for him – mercifully clean, thank the Gods – and from his mouth and nose there came a deluge of liquid as his lungs emptied themselves of both air and water. He breathed in deeply once again, his chest still on fire, but at least he no longer felt like he was dying.

“Cloudgazer… what…?” muttered Creon as he stared at the bucket, turning his head to make sure the light from his horn illuminated the scene right, “Did you just…?”

Balthezar, finally at ease, stared down at the bottom of the bucket, where there was a good inch of briny water. The green dragonborn reached up to wipe his mouth on his nightshirt and leaned back into the embrace of his lover, blinking his eyes hard. How…?

“That… that wasn’t…” Balthezar muttered, weakly, and Creon’s arms surrounded him, “That wasn’t a dream.”

“What do you mean? Should I go get someone?”

Creon’s eyes were wide, and Balthezar couldn’t help but smile. He shook his head and simply settled his face into the solid comfort of Creon’s chest.

“I don’t know… I think… I think it was a sign? Perhaps Deneir is telling me something…?”

“A sign?”

“I saw… darkness. A blackness under the sea swallowing up everything, even the stars and the moon,” recounted Balthezar, his smile fading as the fear returned, “And beneath the sea… the darkness… the darkness had teeth.”

“Teeth…”

“It’s just got to do with whatever Argo was so afraid of. There’s… something out there. It knows we’re coming. It’s ready for us. It’s… excited for us to come.” Balthezar felt another tickle in his throat and coughed once again, before he swallowed and shuddered as he felt salt on his tongue. “I… I’m frightened.”

“Should we turn back?”

“No!” Balthezar cried, straightening up and looking up into Creon’s face, his expression as hard as his soft face could make it, “That… that thing is pure evil. We can’t let it spread its influence across the world. It… It must be destroyed.”

Creon blinked his eyes at this sudden declaration, but soon nodded his head, knowing better than to argue.

“So. What now?”

“Can we just… stay up for a while? I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

“Sure,” said Creon, gently, as he leaned back against the corner of their room where their cot was set and pulled Balthezar in once again to lay against his chest, “Just… lay down and breathe, okay? You scared me.”

“You? Scared?”

Creon frowned, and if the light from Creon’s horn wasn’t backlighting his face, Balthezar was sure he would be able to see the slight darkening of the silver’s scales which indicated that he was blushing.

“I thought you were dying,” muttered Creon, looking away, “If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know what I would tell Caliban. I’d be nowhere.”

“You… you wouldn’t. You would have each other.”

Creon couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Maybe. I don’t know if he and I have the same kind of thing you and him have. I… I kinda miss him.”

“This is my first time having an adventure without him since we met,” said Balthezar, weakly.

Creon nodded. He knew the story well enough about how his two lovers had met, as well as the odd arrangement they had settled into well before Creon had entered the picture. Where Creon fit into the trio was still a little up in the air to him, but Balthezar and Caliban both had been nothing but welcoming to him, even given the inauspicious start to their relationship.

“I’d feel better if Caliban was here to protect you.”

“I would rather have you both,” answered Balthezar.

“Yeah. Same.”

“What time is it? You don’t think he’s sleeping, do you? Wherever he is?” asked Balthezar, looking up into Creon’s face.

“Probably. Sun ain’t even up.”

“Then… perhaps…” Balthezar began, before he pulled away from Creon and turned towards a pack by the cot. He began to dig around in it until he found, wrapped in soft cloth, a crystal ball which shimmered in the light from Creon’s horn, “We can check in on him.”

Balthezar turned himself around so that he was laying with his back against Creon’s chest as he laid the crystal ball in his lap. He began to speak, low and slow, the incantation of a spell. As he spoke, he laid a hand on one side of the ball, before he reached up with his other hand and took Creon’s hand to lay it on the other side.

“What are you…?”

“Caliban knows us. Both of us. It will help with the scrying,” explained Balthezar, before he went back to the spell. He closed his eyes, and for a solid ten minutes, he listened for the song at the center of all things in order to reach through the weave. Soon, he opened his eyes, and stared deep into the crystal.

Creon was not surprised when he began to see images flickering in the crystal. The magic was working. He couldn’t interpret them like Balthezar could, but he still stared hard, his eyes following the shadows for any flash of green scales he could see.

“He’s asleep,” said Balthezar, clear comfort in his voice as he visibly relaxed upon seeing the lizardfolk, “Surrounded by more of his people. Some sort of communal living situation, perhaps?”

“Don’t suppose he can hear us?”

“No. And I wouldn’t want to anyway. I don’t want to wake him up,” said Balthezar, smile growing on his face, “Gods, look at him. You would think after last time we were apart I would never let him out of my sight again.”

“Last time you thought he was dead.”

Balthezar nodded, with a smile. He then turned around once again, sitting in Creon’s lap face to face with his lover as he continued to stare into the crystal ball. The two of them sat like that for a moment, their small, strange family together again for a few precious moments.

“Wish I could see him,” said Creon, straining to stare into the crystal, “You’re obviously happy to see him.”

“Huh?”

Balthezar tore his eyes away from the crystal ball to look up into Creon’s face and saw, at once, the rare, sly smile there. Balthezar blushed, and realized that in their current position, sitting straddling the silver dragonborn’s lap, Creon could feel all of Balthezar’s excitement upon seeing the lizardfolk. The green dragonborn laughed a little and leaned forward, cradling the crystal ball between their chests.

“I suppose… his company isn’t the only thing I miss,” Balthezar muttered, his voice low and sultry.

“I know what you mean. Never thought I was as into teeth as I am before getting into this with you two,” Creon whispered into his lover’s ear.

“I… I’m feeling much better now,” Balthezar said, hope in his voice.

“You coughed up an ocean a little while ago. You need your sleep.”

“I don’t think I could sleep again after what I saw,” said Balthezar, letting the spell end and wrapping the crystal ball back into its slipcover, before he leaned forward, lying fully on top of Creon, reveling in the feeling of the silver’s bare body against his. “Just… to take my mind off things? Then we can sleep.”

“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm,” Creon said, his own voice growing sultry as he laid back fully, letting the light on his horn go out, “You got it, Cloudgazer.”


End file.
